ROMANCES  OF 
GYPSY  BLOOD 


RONRAD  BERCOVIC 


GHITZA  AND  OTHER  ROMANCES 
OF  GYPSY  BLOOD 

BY  KONRAD  BERCOVICI 

WHEN  you  read  about  Fanutza,  the  girl  who 
wished  to  be  sold  to  Mehmet  because  he  said 
to  him  all  women  are  not  alike;  of  Murdo, 
who,  bare  to  the  waist,  wins  his  bride  only  after  an  all- 
night  duel  in  the  moon-lit  forest,  with  cowhide  whips; 
of  Hazi,  wife  of  Sender  Surtuck,  whose  love  for  Nazim 
is  greater  than  her  love  of  Allah;  and  of  Margarita, 
the  bear  tamer's  daughter,  with  her  pretty  eyes  and 
beautiful  teeth  and  with  round,  brown  arms  that  could 
tame  a  bear  but  not  the  youth  she  loved,  you  will 
understand  the  reason  for  Mr.  Bercovici's  rapidly 
rising  reputation  as  one  of  America's  best  story- 
tellers. 

Ghitza,  the  title  story  of  this  volume,  was  selected 
by  Edward  J.  O'Brien  as  the  best  story  published  dur- 
ing 1920. 

No  one  has  caught  as  closely  and  with  such  a  sense 
of  picturesque  values  the  life  of  the  vagabond,  lawless 
gypsies  of  Eastein  Europe  as  Konracl  Bercovicu  His 
gypsies  live  and  suffer,  perform  profound  and  heroic 
actions,  love  like  fire  and  sacrifice  everything  to  their 
passions.  Lo  e  and  death  and  music  are  the  three 
things  that  move  the  gypsy  and  these  stories  of  ele- 
mental passions  must  move  any  reader  capable  of  a 
response  to  primal  things.  $2.00 


Romany  Tales 

"GHITZA    AND    OTHER    ROMANCES    OF 
GYPSY    BLOOD."      By    KONRAD    BERCOVICI. 

Boni  &  Liveright.     19,21.     $2. 

Reviewed  by  JOHA.V  J.  SMERTENKO 

44  T  N    our    village.     .     .     .  Thus    my    nurse, 

[  Marfusha,  would  <*gin  the  bedtime  story  of 
gypsy  outrages  perpetrated  against  the  priest's 
son,  who  \vas  a  bad  boy;  her  foster-mother's  nephew, 
who  was  a  uud  boy,  and  every  other  bad  boy  in  the 
neighborhood.  Marfusha  believed  the  stories  whole- 
heartedly and  narrated  in  great  detail  how  the  chil- 
dren were  kidnapped,  how  their  bones  were  broken 
to  fit  them  for  the  tricks  of  contortionists  and  acrobats, 
and  their  further  adventures  in  captivity  or  their  oc- 
casional escapes.  Invariably  she  ended  the  tale  with 
the  moral:  "You  see  what  may  happen  to  you,  God 
forbid,  when  you  arc  bad."  These  well  documented 
stories  of  gypsy  life  and  means  of  livelihood  in  Russia 
md  the  personal  contacts  id  my  childhood  with  the 
fortune  tellers  and  entertainers  of  the  race  I  recall 
vividly.  Yet  they  serve  but  to  emphasize  how  much 
closer  to  reality  and  to  aesthetic  truth  are  the  imagined 
gypsy  sagas  of  Konrad  Bercovici. 

Mr.  Bercovici  proves  to  the  hilt  Aristotle's  dictum 
that  poetry  is  truer  than  history,  and  it  is  more  than 
a  coincidence  that  this  statement  concerning  the  work 
of  Homer  should  hold  equally  well  for  the  stories  un- 
der discussion.  "Ghitza  and  Other  Romances  of  Gypsy 
Blood"  is  the  "Iliad"  of  gypsy  tribe?  and  their  Tartar 
and  Roumanian  neighbors.  In  writing  of  his  wild 
heroes  the  author  has  given  us  an  account  of  the  no- 
madic race  as  full  and  as  faithful  as  Homer's  por- 
trayal of  primitive  Greek  life.  The  proof  of  this 
statement  is  in  the  reading.  Diverse  and  unconnected 
though  they  are,  these  romances  compel  the  reader  to- 
accept  a  distinct  people  into  the  melrinjr  pot  of  his 
consciousness  by  the  consistency  in  description  of  na- 
tional traits  and  customs  and  by  the  arrisnV  integrity 
of  every  incident.  It  is  easy  to  see  how  Mr.  Beranici 
achieves  this.  Whatever  else  his  story  nu-.y  be,  it  is- 
always  a  narrative  of  the  individual's  adjustment  or  his 
failure-  to  adjust  himself  to  the  inhibition  and 


ideas  which  constitute  "the  law  of  the  JavvTess. 

rhat  the  tales  are   intensely   interesting  is  amoty 
attested  by  Mr.  O'Brien's,  choice  of  "Ghitza,"  whU 
•n-enor  to  some  of  the  stories  in  the  volume,  ;:s  the 
story  published  in   1920.     Mr.   O'Brien  is  a  vet- 
eran caterer  to  popular  taste  and  his  judgment  assures 
one  ot  peasant  reading,  if  nothing  more.     Indeed,  since 
the  .  red-blooded"  fiction   of  Jack   London    American 
itmg  has  had  nothing  more  virile  and  more  gripping 
than  this  volume.     There  is  an  irresistible  appeal  to 
the  npmadic  and  primitive  impulse  within  us,  and  we 
must  vibrate  sympathetically  when  Murdo  whips  his 
Challenger  to   death,   when   Kurgu*   subdues  his  wife 
Fetrackio  tames  his  sweetheart,  and  when   Prince 
£>tephan  abandons  riches  and  civilization  for  a  woman 
and  a  gypsy's  freedom. 

Akin  to  the  character  of  the  stories  is  the  untamed 
beauty  of  language  and  the  natural  philosophy  of  the 
tzvanc,.      Poss.bly  Mr.   Bercovici  expresses  his  ideal 
>mpos,t.on  through  Murdo  when  the  old  man  says: 
And  is  all  that  written  in  the  book,  my  son?     It  is  better 
than  I  thought  possible,  but  not  so  good  as  when  one  teHs* 
*tory      ...     It  is  like  cloth  woven  by  a  machine    nice 
loom*    '         ^  "  "Ot  IikC  thC  klnd  °«  ^rweaVe  on  the 

Murdo  is  the  fountain  of  much  wisdom.     He  re- 
saves  obedience  from  his  tribe  because  he  is  the  wisest, 
as  well  as  the  strongest,  of  them  all.     And  thus  he 
measures  the  work  of  each  man : 

as  to  the  birth  of  people,  I,  Murdo,  can  say  this: 

the  seed  of  an  oak  gives  birth  to  an  oak,  and  that  of  a 

e  to  a  p.ne.     No  matter  where  the  seed  be  carried  by  the 

winds,  if  u  ,.  the  seed  of  an  oak,  an  oak  will  grow;  if  it    * 

the  seed  of  a  p.ne,  a  pine.     So  though  it  never  wa    known 

who  was  the  father  of  Ghitza,  we  knew  him  through  his  Z 

And,  again    he  teaches  the  function  of  government 
to  the  petty  Mavor  of  a  little  village  who  thinks  au- 
-ity  can  wipe  out  a  people  and  dam  the  Danube. 

e.^"«    Cre.  10nK   thC  J"iVCr  W°uld  diS  ifs  "V  ^to  the 

its  own  law  be  to  flow  into  the  sea.     I,  as  the  chief 

give  the  law  to  my  people,   but  never   a   law  ord  Hn"  £ 


river   to    How    otner   man    in    us   course.      10    ruie,     »ay     i, 
Murdo,  is  to  smooth  the  flow  of  life,  not  to  dam  it. 

But  the  wisest  statement  is  made  by  Kezhman  AH, 
the  priest  and  banker,  who  sought  to  explain  why  the 
gentle  Hazi  was  unfaithful  to  her  husband: 

Youth  wants  changes.  It  is  why  we  have  four  seasons. 
Old  age  would'  be  satisfied  with  only  one  long  season. 

In  his  vices,  as  in  his  virtues,  Mr.  Bercovici  has 
little  in  common  with  contemporary  authors.  Not  even 
the  most  prolin^  manufacturer  of  "best  sellers"  would 
dare  write  "The  moon  stood  priestlike,  anointing  them 
in  eternal  love."  and  \  doubt  whether  any  American 
writer  coufd  sentimentalize  on  the  obstinacy  of  a  char- 
acter until  it  became  the  moving  element  in  a  story. 
But  where  are  the  authors  who  can  combine  what  we 
academically  call  "situations"  and  "local  color"  to  cre- 
ate for  their  readers  a  race  of  heroes  and  to  interpret  a 
life  fascinating  yet  repellant,  inspiring  yet  crude,  pow- 
erful yet  dying  f 


1  nat  tne  tales  ar|  intensely  interesting  is  amply 
arrested  by  Mr.  O?B§  en'sfchotcc  of  "Ghitza,"  which 
is  inlerior  to  soine  oflthe  Jftories  in  the  volume,  r.s  the 
kesr.  story  published  ffi  idpo.  Mr.  O'Brien  is  a  vet- 
eran caterer  to  popullr  ta/ite  and  his  judgment  assure* 
one  of  pleasant  readiifc,  if/nothing  more.  Indeed,  since 
the  "red-blooded"  fHtioJf  of  Jack  London  American 
writing  lias  liad  nothu^fmore  virile  and  more  gripping 
than  this  volume.  There  is  an  irresistible  appeal  to 
the  nomadic  and  primitive  impulse  within  us,  and  we 
must  vibrate  sympathetically  when  Murdo  whins  hfs 
challenger  to  death,  when  Kurgux.  subdues  his  wire 
and  Petrackio  tames  his  sweetheart,  and  when  Prince 
Stephan  abandons  riches  and  civiliz;;tfon  for  a  wor-art 
and  a  gypsy's  freedom. 

<!$  <£ 

Akin  to  the  character  of  the  stories  is  the  untamed 
beauty  of  language  and  the  natural  philosophy  of  the 
tziganes.  Possibly  Mr.  Bercovici  expresses  his  ideal 
of  composition  through  Murdo  when  the  old  man  says: 

And  is  all  that  written  in  the  book,  my  son?  It  is  better 
than  I  thought  possible,  but  not  so  good  as  when  one  tells  a 
story.  .  .  .  It  is  like  cloth  woven  by  a  machine,  nice  and 
straight,  but  it  is  not  like  the  kind  our  women  weave  on  the 
loom.  .  .  . 

Murdo  is  the  fountain  of  much  wisdom.  He  re- 
ceives obedience  from  his  tribe  because  he  is  the  wisest, 
as  well  as  the  strongest,  of  them  all.  And  thus  he 
measures  the  work  of  each  man : 

.  .  .  as  to  the  birth  of  people,  I,  Murdo,  can  say  this: 
J  That  the  seed  of  an  oak  gives  birth  to  an  oak,  and  that  of  a 
.  pine  to  a  pine.  No  matter  where  the  seed  be  carried  by  the 
i  winds,  if  it  is  the  seed  of  an  oak,  an  oak  will  grow;  if  it  is 
the  seed  of  a  pine,  a  pine.  So  though  it  never  was  known 
1  who  was  the  father  of  Ghitza,  we  knew  him  through  his  son. 
t 
s  And,  again,  he  teaches  the  function  of  government 

t  to  the  petty  Mayor  of  a  little  village  who  thinks  au- 
a  thority  can  wipe  out  a  people  and  dam  the  Danube. 

Starostf,  ere  long  the  river  would  dig  its  way  into  the 
ti  sea  if  its  own  law  be  to  flow  into  the  sea.  I,  as  the  chief, 
o  give  the  law  to  my  people,  but  never  a  law  ordering  the 

achieves  this.       Whatever  ^etse  his  story  m.-.y  be,   it  is- 
a  narrative  of  the  individual's  ;:diustmcnt  or  hfs 


G  H  I  T  Z  A 

and  Other  Romances  of 

GYPSY    BLOOD 


ly 
KONRAD    BERCOVICI 

Author  of  "Dust  of  New  York,"  etc. 


BONI    AND    LIVERIGHT 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


— ' 
One  of  the  clearest  indications  that  Soviet  R,,« 

of  a  restaurant  check  savin-   "I    S  TI  •  L  ^^ 

up  with  Joe  Uwanawich    I  ^  D  [  ^^   net 

as  I  have  money  "  P  7  ™y  summ™ses  as  soon 

A  LOOK  AT  THE  WOR 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


EV  AND  THE  GYPSIES 

them  identity  cards  and  forbidding  them  to  move.  The  gypsies 
frustrated  the  system  by  making  the  cards  common  property 
usmg  them  as  playing  cards  and  swapping  them  with  each 
•ther.  Whenever  the  cops  got  on  their  tails  they  simply  took    PAO, 
a  new  name-gypsies  change  their  names  the  way  other  peo-        7 
pie  change  their  clothes.  The  Hungarian  regime  provided 
building  materials  to  make  houses  for  the  "homeless"  gypsies        2? 
who  sold  the  materials  and  took  off  with  the  money.  Sent  to       54 
chool,  they  used  the  textbooks  to  make  cigarets 

'olice  and  many  citizens  of  all  nations  take  a  dim  view  of       85 

gypsies  because  of  their  light  fingers  and  their  dubious  call-     112 

ings,  such  as  horse-trading  and  fortunetelling.  While  "ypsies 

mve  produced  no  great  men,  even  in  music  (though  they      135 

have  some  good  fiddlers),  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  think  they      159 

know  their  own  mind.  After  10  years  of  trying    the 
ngarian  government  has  managed  to  organize  three  eypsy      181 
arm  cooperatives.  But  even  these  caged  birds  work  short      209 
hours  and  never  take  a  r1,-ffln,,1t  ~u,^  J?i  •  i  209 


the   rib          n  '  and  ^  «*t  of 

me  tribe  is  still  roving. 

Khrushchev's  plan  for  the  gypsies  promises  to  "improve 

living  conditions  and  raise  their  cultural  level  "  He  ha 
>ur  sympathies;  he  will  have  to  outsmart  them  first! 

'S  WEEK:  PP.  147-150 


GHITZA 
COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY 

BONI  &   LlVERIGHT,   INC. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 

PAQB 

GHITZA 7 

THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS 27 

VLAD'S  SON 54 

YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE M    M     •  85 

TINKA       .............  112 

FANUTZA  .      .      .      »      .      .      .      .      ,      «     .      .      .  135 

HAZI,  WIFE  OF  SENDER  SURTUCK 159 

THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER 181 

YANCU  LAUTARU             .                  .            ....  209 


2038767 


GHITZA 

THAT  winter  had  been  a  very  severe  one  in 
Rumania.  The  Danube  froze  solid  a  week  be- 
fore Christmas  and  remained  tight  for  five 
months.  It  was  as  if  the  blue  waters  were  sud- 
denly turned  into  steel.  From  across  the  river, 
from  the  Dobrudja,  on  sleds  pulled  by  long- 
horned  oxen,  the  Tartars  brought  barrels  of 
frozen  honey,  quarters  of  killed  lambs,  poultry 
and  game,  and  returned  heavily  laden  with  bags 
of  flour  and  rolls  of  sole  leather.  The  whole  day 
long  the  crack  of  whips  and  the  curses  of  the 
drivers  rent  the  icy  atmosphere.  Whatever  their 
destination,  the  carters  were  in  a  hurry  to  reach 
human  habitation  before  nightfall — before  the 
dreaded  time  when  packs  of  wolves  came  out  to 
prey  for  food. 

In  cold,  clear  nights,  when  even  the  wind  was 
frozen  still,  the  lugubrious  howling  of  the  wolves 
permitted  no  sleep.  The  indoor  people  spent  the 
night  praying  for  the  lives  and  souls  of  the  trav- 
elers. 

All  through  the  winter  there  was  not  one 
morning  but  some  man  or  animal  was  found 
torn  or  eaten  in  our  neighborhood.  The  people 

7 


8  GHITZA 

of  the  village  at  first  built  fires  on  the  shores  to 
scare  the  beasts  away,  but  they  had  to  give  it  up 
because  the  thatched  roofs  of  the  huts  in  the  vil- 
lage were  set  on  fire  on  windy  nights  by  flying 
sparks.  The  cold  cowed  the  fiercest  dogs.  The 
wolves,  crazed  by  hunger,  grew  more  daring  from 
day  to  day.  They  showed  their  heads  even  in 
daylight. 

When  Baba  Hana,  the  old  gypsy  fortune-teller, 
ran  into  the  schoolhouse  one  morning  and  cried, 
"Wolf,  wolf  in  the  yard,"  the  teacher  was  in- 
clined to  attribute  her  cry  to  a  long  drink  the 
night  before.  But  that  very  night  Stan,  the 
horseshoer,  who  had  returned  late  from  the  inn 
and  had  evidently  not  closed  the  door  as  he  en- 
tered the  smithy,  was  eaten  up  by  the  beasts. 
And  the  smithy  stood  in  the  center  of  the  village! 
A  stone's  throw  from  the  inn,  and  the  thatch- 
roofed  school,  and  the  red  painted  church!  He 
must  have  put  up  a  hard  fight,  Stan.  Three 
huge  dark  brown  beasts,  as  big  as  yearling  cows, 
were  found  brained.  The  body  of  big  Stan  had 
disappeared  in  the  stomachs  of  the  rest  of  the 
pack.  The  high  leather  boots  and  the  hand  that 
still  gripped  the  handle  of  the  sledge-hammer 
were  the  only  remains  of  the  man.  There  was  no 
blood,  either.  It  had  been  lapped  dry.  That 
stirred  the  village.  Not  even  enough  to  bury  him 
— and  he  had  been  a  good  Christian!  But  the 
priest  ordered  that  the  slight  remains  of  Stan 


GHITZA  9 

be  buried,  Christian-like.  The  empty  coffin  was 
brought  to  the  church  and  all  the  rites  were  car- 
ried out  as  if  the  body  of  Stan  were  there  rather 
than  in  the  stomachs  of  wild  beasts. 

But  after  Stan's  death  the  weather  began  to 
clear  as  if  it  had  been  God's  will  that  such  a  price 
be  paid  for  His  clemency.  The  cold  diminished 
daily  and  in  a  few  days  reports  were  brought 
from  everywhere  on  the  shore  that  the  bridge  of 
ice  was  giving  way.  Two  weeks  before  Easter 
Sunday  it  was  warm  enough  to  give  the  cows  an 
airing.  The  air  cleared  and  the  rays  of  the  sun 
warmed  man  and  beast.  Traffic  on  the  frozen 
river  had  ceased. 

Suddenly  one  morning  a  whip  cracked,  and 
from  the  bushes  on  the  opposite  shore  of  the 
Danube  there  appeared,  following  one  another, 
six  tent  wagons,  such  as  are  used  by  traveling 
gypsies,  each  wagon  drawn  by  four  horses  har- 
nessed side  by  side. 

The  people  on  our  side  of  the  Danube  called 
to  warn  the  travelers  that  the  ice  was  not  thick 
enough  to  hold.  In  a  few  minutes  the  whole 
village  was  near  the  river,  yelling  and  cursing. 
But  after  they  realized  that  the  intention  was  to 
cross  the  Danube  at  any  cost,  the  people  settled 
down  to  watch  what  was  going  to  happen.  In 
front  of  the  first  wagon  walked  a  tall,  gray- 
bearded  man  trying  the  solidity  of  the  ice  with 
a  heavy  stick.  Flanking  the  last  wagon,  in  open 


10  GHITZA 

line,  walked  the  male  population  of  the  tribe. 
Behind  them  came  the  women  and  children.  No 
one  said  a  word.  The  eyes  of  the  whole  village 
were  on  the  travelers,  for  every  one  felt  that 
they  were  tempting  Providence.  Yet  each  one 
knew  that  Murdo,  the  chief  of  the  tribe,  who  was 
well  known  to  all,  in  fact  to  the  whole  Dobrudja, 
would  not  take  such  risks  with  his  people  without 
good  reason. 

They  had  crossed  to  the  middle  of  the  frozen 
river  in  steady  fashion,  when  Murdo  shouted  one 
word  and  the  feet  of  every  man  and  beast 
stopped  short.  The  crossing  of  the  river  had 
been  planned  to  the  slightest  detail.  The  people 
on  the  shore  were  excited.  The  women  began  to 
cry  and  the  children  to  yell.  They  were  driven 
inland  by  the  men,  who  remained  to  watch  what 
was  going  on.  No  assistance  was  possible. 

The  tall  chief  of  the  gypsies  walked  to  the  left 
and  chose  another  path  on  the  ice.  The  move- 
ment continued.  Slowly,  slowly,  in  silence  the 
gypsies  approached  the  shore.  Again  they 
halted.  Murdo  was  probing  the  ice  with  his 
stick.  We  could  see  that  the  feet  of  the  horses 
were  wrapped  in  bags,  and  instead  of  being  shod 
each  hoof  was  in  a  cushion  made  of  straw.  As 
Murdo  felt  his  way,  a  noise  at  first  as  of  the  tear- 
ing of  paper,  but  more  distinct  with  every  mo- 
ment, came  from  somewhere  in  the  distance. 


GHITZA  11 

"Whoa,  whoa,  Murdo,  the  ice  is  breaking!" 
every  one  began  to  shout  excitedly.  The  noise 
grew  louder  and  louder  as  it  approached.  One 
could  hear  it  coming  steadily  and  gauge  how 
much  nearer  it  was.  The  ice  was  splitting 
lengthwise  in  numberless  sheets  which  broke  up 
in  smaller  parts  and  submerged  gayly  in  the 
water,  rising  afterwards  and  climbing  one  on 
top  of  the  other,  as  in  a  merry  embrace. 

"Whoa,  whoa,  Murdo  ..."  but  there  was  no 
time  to  give  warning.  With  one  gesture  Murdo 
had  given  his  orders.  The  wagons  spread  as  for 
a  frontal  attack ;  the  men  seized  the  children  and 
with  the  women  at  their  heels  they  ran  as  fast  as 
their  legs  could  take  them.  On  the  shore  every 
one  fell  on  his  knees  in  prayer.  The  strongest 
men  closed  their  eyes,  too  horrified  to  watch  the 
outcome.  The  noise  of  the  cracking  of  the  ice 
increased.  A  loud  report,  as  of  a  dozen  cannon, 
and  the  Danube  was  a  river  again — and  all,  all 
the  gypsies  had  saved  themselves. 

It  was  a  gay  afternoon  that  afternoon,  and  a 
gay  night  also  for  the  whole  village.  It  drank 
the  inn  out  of  everything.  The  gypsies  had  a 
royal  welcome.  To  all  questions  of  why  he  had 
dared  Providence,  Murdo  answered,  "There  was 
no  food  for  my  people  and  horses.  The  Tartars 
have  none  to  sell." 

Murdo  and  his  tribe  became  the  guests  of  the 
village.  His  people  were  all  lean.  The  men 


12  GHITZA 

could  hardly  carry  themselves  on  their  legs. 
Everybody  had  something  to  nurse.  The  village 
doctor  amputated  toes  and  fingers;  several 
women  had  to  be  treated  for  gangrene.  The  chil- 
dren of  the  tribe  were  the  only  ones  that  had  not 
suffered  much.  It  was  Murdo's  rule :  "Children 
first,  horses  next."  The  animals  were  stabled 
and  taken  charge  of  by  the  peasants.  The  gyp- 
sies went  to  live  in  the  huts  of  the  people  in  order 
to  warm  themselves  back  to  life.  Father  liked 
Murdo,  and  so  the  old  chief  came  to  live  with  us. 
The  nights  were  long.  After  supper  we  all  sat 
in  a  semicircle  around  the  large  fireplace  in  which 
a  big  log  of  seasoned  oak  was  always  burning. 

I  had  received  some  books  from  a  friend  of  the 
family  who  lived  in  the  capital  of  the  country, 
Bucharest.  Among  them  was  Carlyle's  Heroes 
and  Hero-Worship,  translated  into  French.  I 
was  reading  it  when  Murdo  approached  the  table 
and  said,  "What  a  small  Bible  my  son  is  read- 
ing." 

"It  is  not  a  Bible,  it  is  a  book  of  stories, 
Murdo." 

"Stories!    Well,  that's  another  thing." 

He  looked  over  my  shoulder  into  the  book. 
As  I  turned  the  page  he  asked: 

"Is  everything  written  in  a  book?  I  mean,  is 
it  written  what  the  hero  said  and  what  she  an- 
swered and  how  they  said  it?  Is  it  written  all 
about  him  and  the  villain?  I  mean,  are  there 


GHITZA  13 

signs,  letters  for  everything;  for  laughter,  cries, 
love  gestures  ?  Tell  me." 

I  explained  as  best  I  could  and  he  marveled. 
I  had  to  give  an  example,  so  I  read  a  full  page 
from  the  story-book. 

"And  is  all  that  written  in  the  book,  my  son? 
It  is  better  than  I  thought  possible,  but  not  so 
good  as  when  one  tells  a  story.  ...  It  is  like 
cloth  woven  by  a  machine,  nice  and  straight,  but 
it  is  not  like  the  kind  our  women  weave  on  the 
loom — but  it  is  good ;  it  is  better  than  I  thought 
possible.  What  are  the  stories  in  the  book  you 
are  reading?  Of  love  or  of  sorrow?" 

"Of  neither,  Murdo.  Only  about  all  the  great 
heroes  that  have  lived  in  this  world  of  cowards." 

"About  every  one  of  them?"  he  asked  again. 
"That's  good.  It  is  good  to  tell  the  stories  of  the 
heroes." 

He  returned  to  the  fireplace  to  light  his  pipe ; 
then  he  came  to  me  again. 

"If  it  is  written  in  this  book  about  all  the  great 
heroes,  then  there  must  also  be  the  record  of 
Ghitza — the  great  Ghitza,  our  hero.  The  great- 
est that  ever  lived.  See,  son,  what  is  there  said 
about  him?" 

I  turned  the  pages  one  by  one  to  the  end  of  the 
book  and  then  reported,  "Nothing,  Murdo.  Not 
even  his  name  is  mentioned." 

"Then  this  book  is  not  a  good  book.  The  man 
who  wrote  it  did  not  know  every  hero  .  .  .  be- 


14  GHITZA 

cause  not  Alexander  of  Macedon  and  not  even 
Napoleon  was  greater  than  Ghitza.  .  .  ." 

I  sat  near  him  at  the  fireplace  and  watched  his 
wrinkled  face  while  Murdo  told  me  the  story  of 
Ghitza  as  it  should  be  written  in  the  book  of 
heroes  where  the  first  place  should  be  given  to  the 
greatest  of  them  all.  .  .  . 

As  to  the  birth  of  people,  I,  Murdo,  the  chief 
of  the  gypsy  tribe  which  was  ruled  by  the  fore- 
fathers of  my  great-grandfather  (who  each  ruled 
close  to  a  hundred  years) ;  as  to  the  birth  of  peo- 
ple, I,  Murdo,  can  say  this :  That  the  seed  of  an 
oak  gives  birth  to  an  oak,  and  that  of  a  pine  to  a 
pine.  No  matter  where  the  seed  be  carried  by 
the  winds,  if  it  is  the  seed  of  an  oak,  an  oak  will 
grow;  if  it  is  the  seed  of  a  pine,  a  pine.  So 
though  it  never  was  known  who  was  the  father  of 
Ghitza,  we  knew  him  through  his  son.  Ghitza's 
mother  died  because  she  bore  him,  the  son  of  a 
white  man — she,  daughter  of  the  chief  of  our 
tribe.  It  was  Lupu's  rule  to  punish  those  who 
bore  a  child  begotten  from  outside  the  tribe.  But 
the  child  was  so  charming  that  he  was  brought  up 
in  the  tent  of  one  of  our  people.  When  Ghitza 
was  ten  years  old,  he  worked  alongside  the  men; 
and  there  was  none  better  to  try  a  horse  before  a 
customer  than  Ghitza.  The  oldest  and  slowest 
horse  gathered  all  the  strength  it  had  and  gal- 
loped and  ran  when  it  felt  the  bare  boy  on  its 


GHITZA  15 

back.  Old  mares  frisked  about  like  yearlings 
when  he  approached  to  mount  them. 

In  his  fifteenth  summer  he  was  a  man,  tall, 
broad,  straight  and  lissom  as  a  locust  tree.  His 
face  was  like  rich  milk  and  his  eyes  as  black  as 
the  night.  When  he  laughed  or  sang — and  he 
laughed  and  sang  all  the  time — his  mouth  was 
like  a  rose  in  the  morning,  when  the  dew-drops 
hang  on  its  outer  petals.  And  he  was  strong  and 
good.  If  it  happened  that  a  heavy  cart  was  stuck 
in  the  mud  of  the  road  and  the  oxen  could  not 
budge  it,  Ghitza  would  crawl  under  the  cart,  get 
on  all  fours,  and  lift  the  cart  clear  of  the  mud. 
Never  giving  time  to  the  driver  to  thank  him,  his 
work  done,  he  walked  quickly  away,  whistling  a 
song  through  a  trembling  leaf  between  his  lips. 
And  he  was  loved  by  everybody;  and  the  women 
died  just  for  the  looks  of  him.  The  whole  tribe 
became  younger  and  happier  because  of  Ghitza. 
We  traveled  very  much  those  days.  The 
Dobrudja  belonged  yet  to  the  Turks  and  was  in- 
habited mostly  by  Tartars.  The  villages  were 
far  apart  and  very  small,  so  we 'could  not  stay 
long  in  any  place. 

When  Ghitza  was  twenty,  our  tribe,  which  was 
then  ruled  by  my  mighty  grandfather,  Lupu, 
happened  to  winter  near  Cerna  Voda,  a  village 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Danube.  We  sold  many 
horses  to  the  peasants  that  winter.  They  had 
had  a  fine  year.  So  our  people  had  to  be  about 


16  GHITZA 

the  inn  a  good  deal.    Ghitza,  who  was  one  of  the 
best  traders,  was  at  the  inn  the  whole  day.   He 
knew  every  one.    He  knew  the  major  and  his 
wife  and  the  two  daughters  and  chummed  with 
his  son.    And  they  all  loved  Ghitza,  because  he 
was  so  strong,  so  beautiful,  and  so  wise, 
never  called  him  tsAgan  because  he  was  fairer 
than  they  were.    And  there  was  quite  a  friend- 
ship between  him  and  Maria,  the  smith  s  daugh- 
ter    She  was  glad  to  talk  to  him  and  to  listen  to 
his  stories  when  he  came  to  the  smithy, 
helped  her  father  in  his  work.   She  blew  the  bel- 
lows and  prepared  the  shoes  for  the  anvil, 
hair  was  as  red  as  the  fire  and  her  arms  round 
and  strong.    She  was  a  sweet  maid  to  speak  to, 
and  even  the  old  priest  liked  to  pinch  her  arm 
when  she  kissed  his  hand. 

Then  came  spring  and  the  first  Sunday  dance 
in  front  of  the  inn.  The  innkeeper  had  brought 
a  special  band  of  musicians.  They  were  seated 
on  a  large  table  between  two  trees,  and  all  aroun< 
them  the  village  maidens  and  the  young  men, 
locked  arm  in  arm  in  one  long  chain  of  youth, 
danced  the  Hora,  turning  round  and  round. 

Ghitza  had  been  away  to  town,  trading.  When 
he  came  to  the  inn,  the  dance  was  already  on. 
He  was  dressed  in  his  best,  wearing  his  new 
broad,  red  silken  belt  with  his  snow-white  panta- 
loons and  new  footgear  with  silver  bells  on  the 
ankles  and  tips.  His  shirt  was  white  and  thin 


GHITZA  17 

as  air.  On  it  the  deftest  fingers  of  our  tribe  had 
embroidered  figures  and  flowers.  On  his  head 
Ghitza  wore  a  high  black  cap  made  of  finest 
Astrakhan  fur.  And  he  wore  his  large  ear-rings 
of  white  gold. 

Ghitza  watched  the  dance  for  a  while.  Maria's 
right  arm  was  locked  with  the  arm  of  the  smith's 
helper,  and  her  left  with  the  powerful  arm  of 
the  mayor's  son.  Twice  the  long  chain  of  danc- 
ing youths  had  gone  around,  and  twice  Ghitza 
had  seen  her  neck  and  bare  arms,  and  his  blood 
boiled.  When  she  passed  him  the  third  time, 
he  jumped  in,  broke  the  hold  between  Maria  and 
the  smith's  helper,  and  locked  his  arm  in  hers. 

Death  could  not  have  stopped  the  dance  more 
suddenly.  The  musicians  stopped  playing.  The 
feet  stopped  dancing.  The  arms  freed  them- 
selves and  hung  limply. 

The  smith's  helper  faced  Ghitza  with  his  arm 
uplifted. 

"You  cursed  tzigan!  You  low-born  gypsy! 
How  dare  you  break  into  our  dance?  Our 
dance!"  Other  voices  said  the  same. 

Everybody  expected  blows,  then  knives  and 
blood.  But  Ghitza  just  laughed  aloud  and  they 
were  all  calmed.  He  pinned  the  smith's  helper's 
arm  and  laughed.  Then  he  spoke  to  the  people 
as  follows: 

"You  can  see  on- my  face  that  I  am  fairer  than 
any  of  you.  I  love  Maria,  but  I  will  not  re- 


18  GHITZA 

nounce  the  people  I  am  with.  I  love  them.  The 
smith's  helper  knows  that  I  could  kill  him  with 
one  blow.  But  I  shall  not  do  it.  I  could  fight  a 
dozen  of  you  together.  You  know  I  can.  But 
I  shall  not  do  it.  Instead  I  shall  outdance  all 
of  you.  Dance  each  man  and  woman  of  the  vil- 
lage until  she  or  he  falls  tired  on  the  ground. 
And  if  I  do  this  I  am  as  you  are,  and  Maria  mar- 
ries me  without  word  of  shame  from  you." 

And  as  he  finished  speaking  he  grasped  the 
smith's  helper  around  the  waist  and  called  to  the 
musicians : 
"Play,  play!" 

For  a  full  hour  he  danced  around  and  around 
with  the  man  while  the  village  watched  them  and 
called  to  the  white  man  to  hold  out.  But  the 
smith's  helper  was  no  match  for  Ghitza.  He 
dragged  his  feet  and  fell.  Ghitza,  still  fresh  and 
vigorous,  grasped  another  man  and  called  to  the 
musicians  to  play  an  even  faster  dance  than  be- 
fore. When  that  one  had  fallen  exhausted  to  the 
ground,  Ghitza  took  on  a  third  and  a  fourth. 
Then  he  began  to  dance  with  the  maidens.  The 
fiddler's  first  string  broke  and  the  guitar  player's 
fingers  were  numb.  The  sun  went  to  rest  behind 
the  mountains  and  the  moon  rose  in  the  sky  to 
watch  over  her  little  children,  the  stars. 

But  Ghitza  was  still  dancing.  There  was  no 
trace  of  fatigue  on  his  face  and  no  sign  of  weari- 
ness in  his  steps.  The  more  he  danced,  the 


GHITZA  19 

fresher  he  became.  When  he  had  danced  half  of 
the  village  tired,  and  they  were  all  lying  on  the 
ground,  drinking  wine  from  earthen  urns  to  re- 
fresh themselves,  the  last  string  of  the  fiddle 
snapped  and  the  musician  reeled  from  his  chair. 
Only  the  flute  and  the  guitar  kept  on. 

"Play  on,  play  on,  you  children  of  sweet 
angels,  and  I  shall  give  to  each  of  you  a  young 
lamb  in  the  morning."  Ghitza  urged  them.  But 
soon  the  breath  of  the  flutist  gave  way.  His  lips 
swelled  and  blood  spurted  from  his  nose.  The 
guitar  player's  fingers  were  so  numb  he  could  no 
longer  move  them.  Then  some  of  the  people 
beat  the  rhythm  of  the  dance  with  their  open 
palms.  Ghitza  was  still  dancing  on.  They  broke 
all  the  glasses  of  the  inn  and  all  the  bottles  beat- 
ing time  to  his  dance. 

The  night  wore  away.  The  cock  crew.  Early 
dogs  arose  and  the  sun  woke  and  started  to  climb 
from  behind  the  eastern  range  of  mountains. 
Ghitza  laughed  aloud  as  he  saw  all  the  dancers 
lying  on  the  ground.  Even  Maria  was  asleep 
near  her  mother.  He  entered  the  inn  and  woke 
the  innkeeper,  who  had  fallen  asleep  behind  the 
counter. 

"Whoa,  whoa,  you  old  swindler!  Wake  up! 
Day  is  come  and  I  am  thirsty." 

After  a  long  drink,  he  went  to  his  tent  to  play 
with  the  dogs,  as  he  did  early  every  morning. 

A  little  later,  toward  noon,  he  walked  over  to 


20  GHITZA 

the  smith's  shop,  shook  hands  with  Maria's  father 
and  kissed  the  girl  on  the  mouth  even  as  the 
helper  looked  on. 

^"She  shall  be  your  wife,  son,"  the  smith  said. 
"She  will  be  waiting  for  you  when  your  tribe 
comes  to  winter  here.  And  no  man  shall  ever 
say  my  daughter  married  an  unworthy  one." 

The  fame  of  our  tribe  spread  rapidly.  The 
tale  of  Ghitza's  feat  spread  among  all  the  vil- 
lages and  our  tribe  was  respected  everywhere. 
People  no  longer  insulted  us,  and  many  another 
of  our  tribe  now  danced  on  Sundays  at  the  inn 
-—yea,  our  girls  and  our  boys  danced  with  the 
other  people  of  the  villages.  Our  trade  doubled 
and  tripled.  We  bartered  more  horses  in  a 
month  ^  than  we  had  at  other  times  in  a  year. 
Ghitza's  word  was  law  everywhere.  He  was  so 
strong  his  honesty  was  not  doubted.  And  he  was 
honest.  An  honest  horse-trader! 

He  traveled  far  and  wide.  But  if  Cerna  Voda 
was  within  a  day's  distance,  Ghitza  was  sure  to 
be  there  on  Sunday  to  see  Maria. 

To  brighten  such  days,  wrestling  matches  were 
arranged  and  bets  were  made  as  to  how  long  the 
strongest  of  them  could  stay  with  Ghitza.  And 
every  time  Ghitza  threw  the  other  man.  Once  in 
the  vise  of  his  two  arms,  a  man  went  down  like 
a  log. 

And  so  it  lasted  the  whole  summer.  But  in 
whatever  village  our  tribe  happened  to  be,  the 


GHITZA  21 

women  were  running  after  the  boy.  Lupu,  the 
chief  of  the  tribe,  warned  him ;  told  him  that  life 
is  like  a  burning  candle  and  that  one  must  not 
burn  it  at  both  ends  at  the  same  time.  But 
Ghitza  only  laughed  and  made  merry. 

"Lupu,  old  chief,  didst  thou  not  once  say  that 
I  was  an  oak?  Why  dost  thou  speak  of  candles 
now?" 

And  he  carried  on  as  before.  And  ever  so 
good,  and  ever  so  merry,  and  ever  such  a  good 
trader. 

Our  tribe  returned  to  Cerna  Voda  early  that 
fall.  We  had  many  horses,  and  we  felt  that 
Cerna  was  the  best  place  for  them.  Most  of 
them  were  of  the  little  Tartar  kind,  so  we 
thought  it  well  for  them  to  winter  in  the  Dan- 
ube's valley. 

Every  Sunday,  at  the  inn,  there  were  wres- 
tling matches.  Young  men,  the  strongest,  came 
from  far-away  villages.  And  they  all,  each  one 
of  them,  hit  the  ground  when  Ghitza  let  go  his 
vise. 

One  Sunday,  when  the  leaves  had  fallen  from 
the  trees  and  the  harvest  was  in,  there  came  a 
Tartar  horse-trading  tribe  to  Cerna  Voda. 

And  in  their  midst  they  had  a  big,  strong  man. 
Lupu,  our  chief,  met  their  chief  at  the  inn.  They 
talked  and  drank  and  praised  each  their  horses 
and  men.  Thus  it  happened  that  the  Tartar 
chief  spoke  about  his  strong  man.  The  peasants 


22  GHITZA 

crowded  nearer  to  hear  the  Tartar's  story.  Then 
they  talked  of  Ghitza  and  his  strength.  The 
Tartar  chief  did  not  believe  them. 

"I  bet  three  of  my  best  horses  that  my  man 
can  down  him,"  the  Tartar  chief  called. 

"I  take  the  bet  against  a  hundred  ducats  in 
gold,"  the  innkeeper  answered. 

"It's  a  bet,"  the  Tartar  said. 

"Any  more  horses  to  bet?"  others  called  out. 

The  Tartar  paled,  but  he  was  a  proud  chief 
and  soon  all  his  horses  and  all  his  ducats  were 
pledged  in  bets  to  the  peasants.  That  whole  day 
and  the  rest  of  the  week  to  Sunday,  nothing  else 
was  spoken  about.  The  people  of  our  tribe 
pledged  everything  they  possessed.  The  women 
gave  even  their  ear-rings.  The  Tartars  were  rich 
and  proud  and  took  every  bet  that  was  offered. 
The  match  was  to  be  on  Sunday  afternoon  in 
front  of  the  inn.  Ghitza  was  not  in  the  village 
at  all  the  whole  week.  He  was  in  Constantza, 
on  the  shores  of  the  Black  Sea,  finishing  some 
trade.  When  he  arrived  home  on  Sunday  morn- 
ing he  found  the  people  of  the  village,  our  peo- 
ple, the  Tartars,  and  a  hundred  carriages  that 
had  brought  people  from  the  surrounding  vil- 
lages camped  in  front  of  the  inn.  He  jumped 
down  from  his  horse  and  looked  about  wonder- 
ing from  where  and  why  so  many  people  at  once ! 
The  men  and  the  women  were  in  their  best 
clothes  and  the  horses  all  decorated  as  for  a  fair. 


GHITZA  23 

The  people  gave  him  a  rousing  welcome.  Lupu 
called  Ghitza  aside  and  told  him  why  the  people 
had  gathered.  Ghitza  was  taken  aback,  but  he 
laughed  instantly  and  slapped  the  chief  on  the 
shoulders. 

"It  will  be  as  you  know,  and  the  Tartars  shall 
depart  poor  and  dishonored,  while  we  will  remain 
the  kings  of  the  horse  trade  in  the  Dobrudja, 
honored  and  beloved  by  all." 

Oak  that  he  was !  Thus  he  spoke,  and  he  had 
not  even  seen  the  other  man,  the  man  he  was  to 
wrestle.  He  only  knew  he  had  to  maintain  the 
honor  of  his  tribe.  At  the  appointed  hour  he 
came  to  the  inn.  The  whole  tribe  was  loitering 
around.  He  had  stripped  to  the  waist.  He  was 
good  to  look  at.  On  the  ground  were  bundles 
of  rich  skins  near  rolls  of  cloth  that  our  men  and 
women  had  bet  against  the  Tartars.  Heaps  of 
gold,  rings,  watches,  ear-rings,  and  ducats  were 
spread  on  the  tables.  Tartar  horses  and  oxen  of 
our  men  and  the  people  of  the  village  were 
trooped  together,  the  necks  tied  to  one  long  rope 
held  on  one  side  by  one  of  our  men  or  a  villager 
and  at  the  other  end  by  a  Tartar  boy.  If  Ghitza 
were  thrown,  our  man  had  just  to  let  his  end 
of  the  rope  go  and  all  belonged  to  the  other  one. 
The  smithy  had  pledged  all  he  had,  even  his 
daughter,  to .  the  winner ;  and  many  another 
daughter,  too,  was  pledged. 

Ghitza  looked  about  and  saw  what  was  at 


24  GHITZA 

stake:  the  wealth  and  honor  of  his  tribe  and  the 
wealth  and  honor  of  the  village  and  the  sur- 
rounding villages. 

Then  the  Tartar  came.  He  was  tall  and 
square.  His  trunk  rested  on  short,  stocky  legs, 
and  his  face  was  black,  ugly,  and  pock-marked. 
All  shouting  ceased.  The  men  formed  a  wide 
ring  around  the  two  wrestlers.  It  was  so  quiet 
one  could  hear  the  slightest  noise.  Then  the 
mayor  spoke  to  the  Tartars  and  pointed  to  the 
Danube;  the  inn  was  right  on  its  shore. 

"If  your  man  is  thrown,  this  very  night  you 
leave  our  shore  for  the  other  side." 

Ghitza  kissed  Maria  and  Lupu,  the  chief. 
Then  the  fight  began. 

A  mighty  man  was  Ghitza  and  powerful  were 
his  arms  and  legs.  But  it  was  seen  from  the  very 
first  grip  that  he  had  burned  the  candle  at  both 
ends  at  the  same  time.  He  had  wasted  himself 
in  carouses.  The  two  men  closed  one  another  in 
their  vises  and  each  tried  to  crush  the  other's 
ribs.  Ghitza  broke  the  Tartar's  hold  and  got  a 
grip  on  his  head  and  twisted  it  with  all  his  might. 
But  the  neck  of  the  devil  was  of  steel.  It  did 
not  yield.  Maria  began  to  call  to  her  lover: 

"Twist  his  neck,  Ghitza.  My  father  has 
pledged  me  to  him  if  he  wins."  And  many  an- 
other girl  begged  Ghitza  to  save  her  from  marry- 
ing a  black  devil. 

The  Tartars,  from  the  other  side,  kept  giving 


GHITZA  25 

advice  to  their  man.  Everybody  shrieked  like 
mad,  and  even  the  dogs  howled.  From  Ghitza's 
body  the  sweat  flowed  as  freely  as  a  river.  But 
the  Tartar's  neck  yielded  not  and  his  feet  were 
like  pillars  of  steel  embedded  in  rocks. 

"Don't  let  his  head  go,  don't  let  him  go,"  our 
people  cried,  when  it  was  plain  that  all  strength 
had  gone  out  of  his  arms.  Achmed's  pear-shaped 
head  slipped  from  between  his  arms  as  the  Tar- 
tar wound  his  legs  about  Ghitza's  body  and 
began  to  crush  him.  Ghitza  held  on  with  all  his 
strength.  His  face  was  blue-black.  His  nose 
bled,  and  from  his  mouth  he  spat  blood.  Our 
people  cried  and  begged  him  to  hold  on.  The 
eyes  of  the  Tartars  shot  fire,  their  white  teeth 
showed  from  under  their  thick  lips  and  they 
called  on  Achmed  to  crush  the  Ghiaour.  Oh!  it 
seemed  that  all  was  lost.  All  our  wealth,  the 
honor  and  respect  Ghitza  had  won  for  us,  the 
village's  wealth,  and  all.  And  all  the  maidens 
were  to  be  taken  away  as  slaves  to  the  Tartars. 
One  man  said  aloud  so  that  Ghitza  should  hear: 

"There  will  not  be  a  pair  of  oxen  in  the  whole 
village  to  plow  with;  not  a  horse  to  harrow 
with,  and  our  maidens  are  pledged  to  the  black 
sons  of  the  devil." 

Ghitza  was  being  downed.  But,  wait  .  .  . 
what  happened!  With  the  last  of  his  strength 
he  broke  the  hold.  A  shout  rose  to  rend  the 
skies.  Bewildered,  Achmed  lay  stupefied  and 


26  GHITZA 

looked  on.  Tottering  on  his  feet  in  three  jumps 
Ghitza  was  on  the  high  point  of  the  shore — a 
splash — and  there  was  no  more  Ghitza.  He  was 
swallowed  by  the  Danube.  No  Tartar  had 
downed  him! 

And  so  our  people  had  back  their  wealth,  and 
the  people  of  the  village  theirs.  No  honor  was 
lost  and  the  maidens  remained  in  the  village — 
only  Maria  did  not.  She  followed  her  lover  even 
as  the  people  looked  on.  No  one  even  attempted 
to  stop  her.  It  was  her  right.  Where  was  she 
to  find  one  such  as  he?  She,  too,  was  from  the 
seed  of  an  oak. 

"And  now,  son,  I  ask  thee — if  the  book  before 
thee  speaks  of  all  the  great  heroes,  why  is  it  that 
Ghitza  has  not  been  given  the  place  of  honor?" 

The  log  was  burning  in  the  fireplace,  but  I 
said  good  night  to  Murdo.  I  wanted  to  dream 
of  the  mighty  Ghitza  and  his  Maria.  And  ever 
since  I  have  been  dreaming  of  ...  her. 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS 

THE  tent  wagons  of  Murdo's  gypsy  tribe 
rolled  slowly  in  single  file  along  the  narrow 
dirt-road  leading  from  Chilia,  a  village  on  one  of 
the  arteries  through  which  the  Danube  empties 
its  blue  waters  into  the  ocean,  to  Tulcea,  one  of 
the  main  Rumanian  ports  on  the  Black  Sea. 

For  more  than  three  months  the  gypsies  had 
not  been  allowed  to  stop  anywhere  for  a  longer 
time  than  from  sundown  to  sunrise.  No  sooner 
would  they  come  into  a  village  than  the  authori- 
ties would  arrive  to  warn  the  chief  that  from  on 
high,  from  the  chief  of  police,  it  had  been  or- 
dered that  no  gypsies  were  to  be  allowed  to 
camp  there.  And  when  Murdo  dared  to  ask  the 
reason  for  such  harshness,  the  staroste,  the 
mayor,  usually  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  re- 
marked that  orders  were  orders  and  required  no 
explanations.  Only  in  Chilia,  the  staroste,  an 
old  friend  of  Murdo,  confidentially  told  the 
gypsy  that  it  was  because  the  government 
wanted  everybody  to  have  a  residence.  Such 
was  the  law. 

"The  law  says  that  there  be  no  more  gypsies, 
Murdo.  And  the  law  must  be  obeyed,"  the  old 
staroste  said. 

27 


28    THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS 

Murdo  showed  the  waters  of  the  Danube  to 
the  villager  as  he  said:  "Can  the  law  order  that 
this  water  should  not  flow  into  the  sea?  Can  it 
make  the  Danube  farm-land?" 

"It  could  not,  Murdo.  But  the  government 
could  dam  the  river,"  the  staroste  replied  with 
pride  in  the  strength  of  his  government. 

ff Staroste,  erelong  the  river  would  dig  its  way 
into  the  sea  if  its  own  law  be  to  flow  into  the  sea. 
I,  as  the  chief,  give  the  law  to  my  people,  but 
never  a  law  ordering  the  river  to  flow  other  than 
in  its  course.  To  rule,  say  I,  Murdo,  is  to  smooth 
the  flow  of  life,  not  to  dam  it.  Our  ways  are 
different  from  yours.  All  the  rivers  do  not  flow 
into  the  sea  at  the  same  place.  Four  of  our 
horses  died  on  the  road  from  fatigue  because  of 
this  law.  Two  of  my  men  are  ill. 

"Look,  staroste,  at  the  children,  at  the  women, 
the  dogs.  They  are  tired.  It  will  take  a  week's 
work  to  repair  our  wagons.  Not  a  wheel  that 
turns  as  it  ought.  Most  of  the  axles  are  bent 
out  of  shape.  And  it  is  getting  cold,  staroste. 
There  is  snow  on  the  mountains.  We  will  meet 
wolves." 

But  orders  were  orders.  The  old  staroste 
could  not  go  against  them,  and  the  gypsy  tribe, 
huddled  in  the  crippled  tent  wagons  drawn  by 
fagged-out  lean  horses  and  followed  by  foot- 
weary  dogs,  snaked  its  way  to  Tulcea,  where 
Murdo,  now  that  he  had  learned  the  reason  of 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS    29 

the  persecution,  intended  to  claim  residence  be- 
cause he  was  born  there. 

It  took  the  gypsies  a  month  to  reach  the  port 
on  the  Black  Sea.  On  the  road  from  Chilia  two 
more  horses  dropped  in  the  traces.  One  of  the 
men  died  and  Murdo's  own  wife  was  buried 
behind  an  oak  only  a  few  hours  before  haven 
had  been  reached.  The  burial  took  place  at 
night.  Early  before  the  following  sunrise  the 
soil  around  the  grave  was  evened  up.  The  few 
shovelfuls  of  earth  which  had  been  displaced  to 
make  room  for  a  human  body  were  thrown  to 
the  wind.  The  gypsies  avoided  dealings  with 
the  law.  Murdo's  wife  was  buried  as  she  had 
lived:  on  the  road.  What  had  the  law  to  do 
with  that! 

When  Murdo's  tribe  had  finally  reached  Tul- 
cea  the  first  fleecy  snow  had  fallen.  Because  the 
chief  of  the  gypsies  claimed  to  have  been  born 
in  that  town,  and  until  he  could  prove  it  through 
witnesses,  Murdo's  tribe  was  allowed  to  make 
winter-quarters  behind  the  town,  close  to  the 
forest. 

The  first  few  days  the  whole  tribe  lived  in  the 
roadhouse.  The  horses,  twenty  in  all,  needed 
special  care  and  doctoring.  The  women  and 
children  requked  warmth,  food,  and  clothing. 
As  for  the  men,  they  were  so  engrossed  with  all 
these  arrangements  and  so  warmed  by  the  new 


30    THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS 

wine  they  drank  at  the  inn,  they  had  forgotten 
that  they  were  tired. 

On  Monday,  after  the  first  Sunday  in  Tulcea, 
Murdo  ordered  his  men  to  prepare  camp  for 
winter  quarters.  The  wheels  of  the  wagons  were 
buried  in  the  ground  to  the  axle,  and  fastened 
to  stakes  with  ropes.  Then  several  shacks  were 
put  up ;  one  for  the  smithy  and  the  wheelwright 
of  the  tribe;  one  for  the  common  kitchen;  and 
one  very  long  one  in  which  to  stable  the  horses. 
At  the  end  of  the  fourth  day  the  winter  quar- 
ters were  in  shape  and  the  horses,  women,  dogs, 
and  children  were  brought  over  from  the  Chan, 
the  roadhouse,  to  the  tent-wagons  and  the  shacks 
near  the  forest. 

Murdo,  away  most  of  the  time,  had  ordered  all 
these  things  to  be  done  in  his  absence.  He  was 
too  busy  proving  his  right  to  residenceship  to  be 
with  his  people.  He  could  depend  on  them. 
For  thirty  years  he  had  been  their  ruler.  His 
father  and  his  grandfather,  the  mighty  Lupu, 
had  each  ruled  the  same  tribe.  Ruled  and  ruler 
knew  one  another.  There  was  strict  discipline 
in  some  matters.  No  harshness.  Murdo  was  too 
strong  to  be  harsh.  He  was  too  much  of  a  born 
ruler  to  squander  his  authority  on  matters  not 
of  the  first  importance.  Tall,  broad,  straight, 
with  a  long  white  beard  and  a  gray  mane  of  hair 
that  reached  over  his  shoulders,  Murdo  was 
everywhere  a  distinguished  man.  When  a  stran- 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS    31 

ger  needed  word  with  the  chief,  he  had  but  to  see 
Murdo  to  know  that  he  and  none  other  was  the 
ruler.  At  sixty  Murdo's  black  eyes  had  lost  none 
of  their  brilliancy,  his  strong  mouth  none  of  its 
firmness;  his  arms,  long,  brown,  and  long- 
muscled,  still  retained  their  steel;  and  he  moved 
with  a  litheness  unexcelled  by  the  fleetest  young- 
ster of  the  tribe.  He  talked  very  little;  mostly 
in  parables  and  allegories ;  but  what  he  said  car- 
ried weight.  His  round,  full  voice  breathed 
authority  and  inspired  confidence.  What  Murdo 
said  was  law.  No  man  of  his  own  tribe  dared 
to  contradict  him.  And  the  gypsies  wondered 
when  other  authorities  opposed  their  chief's 
wishes !  How  dared  they !  He  was  Murdo,  the 
son  of  Stan.  The  grandson  of  Lupu,  Lupu, 
the  wolf. 

No  sooner  had  Murdo's  tribe  settled  for  the 
winter  than  other  gypsies  arrived  in  Tulcea, 
and  were  permitted  to  quarter  near  the  forest 
for  the  winter.  The  different  chiefs  met  in 
Murdo's  tent  and  agreed  to  hold  their  men  in 
check.  There  were  hard  times  ahead,  Murdo 
explained.  The  law  was  against  them  every- 
where. They  had  met  better  luck  in  Tulcea  for 
a  while,  but  if  the  men  should  fight  or  take  what 
was  not  theirs,  he  doubted  not  but  that  they 
would  be  ordered  to  leave  instantly.  Let  them 
avoid  the  wine-houses  until  things  quieted,  that 
was  the  best  policy.  In  the  spring  they  could 


32    THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS 

again  see  what  was  best  for  them.  It  was  so 
agreed.  There  was  very  little  trade  to  be  picked 
up.  A  horse  here  and  there.  An  ox,  a  cow,  a  few 
pigs,  nothing  more.  The  whole  day  the  men 
busied  themselves  around  their  horses  and 
wagons.  The  women  cooked  and  mended  and 
washed.  The  children  kept  themselves  near  the 
tents  and  around  the  shacks,  and  helped  to  blow 
the  bellows  and  shoe  the  horses.  But  the  eve- 
nings were  gay.  The  older  men  played  cards  in 
one  or  the  other  of  the  barns,  which  the  breath  of 
horses  kept  warm,  while  the  young  people,  boys 
and  girls,  danced  and  sang  to  the  music  of  the 
violin  and  the  three-stringed  cobza,  the  guitar  of 
the  tzigans. 

Among  the  girls  there  was  one  Lina.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  Stancu,  the  chief  of  a  tribe. 
There  were  many  who  were  more  beautiful  than 
she,  with  longer  eyelashes,  longer  hair,  fuller 
throat,  and  even  greater  shapeliness.  Yet  Lina 
was  the  one  most  courted,  the  one  most  sought 
after.  There  was  something  about  her  which 
attracted  the  young  men  to  her.  She  had  the 
Vino  incoa,  the  "Come-here"  about  her,  and 
all  the  youngsters,  pleading  and  promising,  fol- 
lowed her  wherever  she  went. 

As  Christmas  approached  there  were  a  dozen 
aspirants;  almost  all  the  marriageable  youth  of 
the  gypsies  camped  there.  She  had  allowed 
each  of  them  to  think  that  he  might  be  the  chosen 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS    33 

one,  so  that  at  every  dance  the  other  girls  were 
left  alone  to  themselves,  while  the  young  men 
waited  for  Lina's  favor. 

If  it  happened  that  one  of  "her"  boys  danced 
with  another  girl,  Lina  would  only  look  at  him 
from  the  corner  of  her  eye,  and  he  would  know 
that  he  had  lost  caste  with  her.  The  older 
women  laughed  heartily  at  Lina's  cleverness,  and 
enjoyed  the  spectacle  of  so  many  men  on  one 
string,  but  the  older  men  were  worried,  because 
they  feared  bloodshed.  At  another  time  it  would 
not  have  mattered  much.  It  was  customary 
under  such  circumstances  for  the  youths  to  fight 
it  out  amongst  themselves.  The  woman  was  the 
spoils  of  war.  Only  the  circumstances  were  to- 
tally different  now.  A  fight  would  certainly  be 
calamity. 

Among  Lina's  suitors  was  Mincu,  a  man  of 
Murdo's  tribe.  Murdo  liked  Mincu.  He  was 
very  handy  with  tools  and  could  be  depended  on 
when  the  tribe  was  in  need  of  clever  work.  In 
Murdo's  absence,  Mincu,  though  hardly  over 
twenty,  was  looked  upon  as  the  guide  of  the 
tribe.  The  chief  occasionally  took  counsel  with 
him.  Nicolai,  Murdo's  own  son,  was  too  much 
a  dreamer. 

For  Christmas  Eve,  the  gypsies,  four  tribes, 
two  hundred  jsouls  in  all,  had  arranged  to  have 
their  meal  together.  The  largest  barn  was  fitted 
out  with  large  white  pine  tables,  the  walls  deco- 


34    THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS 

rated  with  flowers  and  rugs  of  all  kinds,  and 
from  the  ceiling  hung  colored  lanterns.  The 
stalls  of  the  horses  were  transformed  into  booths 
for  the  children.  Each  tribe  had  contributed  a 
roasted  pig,  a  bag  of  flour,  sugar,  spices,  and  a 
barrel  of  wine.  There  was  plenty  to  eat  and  a 
good  deal  to  drink;  soft,  sweet  wine  for  the  wom- 
en and  children  and  stronger  drinks  for  the 
men.  Drink  to  warm  the  heart,  to  fire  the  blood. 
It  was  better  that  the  men  spend  that  evening 
together  in  the  camp  than  in  the  roadhouse. 
Each  chief  was  carving  the  meat  for  his  own 
people,  and  the  women  were  filling  the  glasses 
of  the  men,  teasing  them,  saying  pretty  things  as 
they  did  so.  When  the  first  hunger  had  been 
stilled  and  the  fiddlers  were  ready  to  play, 
Murdo  saw  how  all  the  young  men  clustered 
about  Lina.  Much  wine  had  already  been  con- 
sumed. Murdo  was  afraid  lest  the  young  men 
of  the  other  tribes  should  get  beyond  the  control 
of  their  chiefs,  as  they  consumed  more  wine,  and 
start  to  fight.  Yet  he  could  not  tell  the  others 
not  to  drink;  they  were  not  his  men,  and  to  order 
only  his  men  would  have  been  unjust.  His  men 
were  as  good  as  the  others,  if  not  better.  Yet 
there  was  fight  in  the  air.  Murdo  scented  and 
feared  the  outburst  of  superfluous  energy.  It 
needed  some  outlet  in  another  direction;  there 
must  be  a  diversion.  Suddenly  Murdo  got  up 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS    35 

from  the  table  and  walked  up  to  where  Lina 
stood,  surrounded  by  the  young  gypsies. 

"Silence,"  his  voice  boomed. 

Pieces  of  meat,  wine-glasses,  remained  sus- 
pended in  the  air.  All  movement  was  arrested 
by  Murdo's  voice. 

"I  shall  help  Lina  to-night  choose  from 
amongst  these  youths,  and  thus  give  to  the  other 
girls  their  chance.  The  best  man  wins.  Wres- 
tling is  the  game.  No  knives.  No  blows.  And 
no  wine  shall  be  drunk  until  the  end,  when  we 
will  drink  to  the  lucky  one." 

Lina  did  not  look  very  pleased.  She  enjoyed 
the  envy  and  the  hatred  of  the  other  girls  more 
than  the  love-making  of  any  man;  but  her  own 
father,  Stancu,  the  chief,  was  the  first  to  accept 
this  proposal  with  joy.  Murdo  was  wise.  The 
wisest  of  them  all,  Stancu  said  to  himself.  He, 
too,  had  scented  fight  in  the  air.  It  were  better 
to  turn  it  all  into  orderly  wrestling,  with  no 
knives,  no  blows,  and  check  the  trouble  for  good. 
It  was  time  for  Lina  to  stop  playing  with  the 
hearts  of  men  and  the  hopes  of  the  other  girls. 

The  tables  were  cleared  and  a  spacious  ring 
was  roped  off  at  one  end  of  the  barn.  The  four 
chiefs  constituted  themselves  judges.  By  the 
time  everything  was  ready  for  the  contest  there 
were  only  fo'ur  young  men  ready  to  fight  for  the 
woman.  And  amongst  them  was  Mincu, 
Murdo's  man.  The  eight  or  nine  others  had 


36    THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS 

withdrawn  amongst  the  spectators  and  were  al- 
ready trying  to  renew  half-broken  friendships 
with  other  girls. 

Murdo  announced  the  rules  of  the  match. 
The  last  one  on  his  feet  was  to  be  the  winner. 
Once  a  man's  shoulders  were  pinned  to  the 
ground  he  was  eliminated  from  the  contest.  The 
four  men  were  paired  off  by  drawing  lots.  The 
first  two  to  lock  arms  were  Mincu  and  a  youth 
named  Yorga.  Apparently,  there  was  not  much 
strength  in  Mincu.  Stripped  to  the  waist  he 
was  physically  the  inferior  of  Yorga.  But  what 
Mincu  lacked  in  strength  was  amply  compen- 
sated for  in  wits.  Lina  turned  and  said  aloud 
to  another  woman,  "That  man  there,  Mincu, 
wants  to  commit  suicide  for  me." 

"No,  Lina,"  Mincu  answered,  as  he  applied  a 
head-lock  on  the  other  man,  "I  am  committing 
murder." 

It  made  everybody  laugh  and  lost  Yorga  the 
match.  He  had  not  heard  Lina's  comment  and 
Mincu's  reply.  The  loud  laughter  surprised 
him,  his  muscles  relaxed,  and  he  fell  on  his  shoul- 
ders like  a  wide,  flat  board.  There  were  loud 
cheers  for  the  winner.  Still  stripped  to  the 
waist,  with  a  heavy  coat  thrown  over  his  naked 
shoulders,  Mincu  took  his  place  near  Lina's  right 
hand  to  watch  the  outcome  of  the  second  match, 
the  winner  of  which  he  was  to  fight. 

"A  good  idea  of  Murdo's,  I  say,  Lina,  to  make 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS    37 

this  night  our  wedding-night?"  Mincu  began  his 
conversation  with  the  girl. 

She  turned  sharply  on  the  boy  and  answered, 
"Your  Murdo  is  a  sly  fox.  I  hate  him  for  what 
he  did  to-night.  And  you  must  not  cook  the 
bird  while  it  is  still  flying  over  the  tree-tops." 

"Oh,  Lina,  Lina,  it  is  as  good  as  done.  I  am 
better  than  any  of  the  two  now  wrestling." 

"You  red-headed  chatterbox,"  she  turned  on 
him,  measuring  the  boy  in  one  glance  from  foot 
to  head. 

Meanwhile  the  two  other  men  in  the  ring  had 
locked  arms  and  the  shouts  from  the  onlookers 
rose  and  fell  in  waves.  Outside  the  wind  was 
raging  and  wrestling  with  the  trees  in  the  forest. 
Indoors  men  were  fighting  for  a  woman.  The 
two  men  in  the  ring  were  of  different  tribes  and 
the  match  was  one  in  which  other  things  than  a 
woman  were  involved.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the 
two  men  had  already  fought  before.  Stefan 
had  an  old  grudge  against  Marin,  one  of  Stan- 
cu's  tribe,  who  had  won  a  horse-race  from  him 
in  which  the  horse  was  the  stake.  After  win- 
ning the  race,  Marin  looked  at  the  horse  he  had 
won  and,  saying  that  it  was  not  worth  the  food 
it  would  eat,  he  shot  it  dead  in  the  presence  of  its 
former  owner,  all  the  others  looking  on.  Stefan 
could  make  no  protest  against  such  cruelty.  By 
right  it  had  become  Marin's  property,  and  he 
was,  as  its  master,  free  to  do  as  he  pleased.  But 


38    THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS 

Stefan  had  loved  the  horse.  Had  raised  it  him- 
self. And  even  more  than  from  seeing  his  horse 
shot  by  another,  he  suffered  from  the  intended 
insult.  It  was  an  insult  to  the  whole  tribe.  It 
was  the  mutual  hatred  between  those  two  men 
that  Murdo  had  felt  vibrating  in  the  air  when  he 
called  for  the  wrestling  matches.  Murdo  re- 
alized it  only  afterwards ;  when  the  two  men  had 
stripped  for  action.  The  men  of  the  two  tribes 
were  more  interested  than  in  the  previous  match. 
Lina,  too,  knew  that  to  the  winner  of  that  match 
she  was  only  a  prize  and  not  the  bone  of  con- 
tention. And  because  of  that,  because  she  was 
of  secondary  importance,  she  soon  turned  her 
back  to  the  ring  and  went  to  the  opposite  end  of 
the  barn  to  smoke  a  cigarette. 

She  had  slipped  away  unnoticed  by  any  save 
Mincu  and  Murdo,  who  kept  an  eye  on  her  all 
the  time. 

"I  hate  them  both,"  she  said  to  the  red- 
headed contender  who  sat  down  on  the  same 
bench. 

"That's  good  to  hear,"  Mincu  exclaimed. 

They  were  silent  for  a  while.  Then  Lina  put 
her  arm  round  the  boy's  neck,  and  leaning  close 
to  his  ear,  she  whispered: 

"Mincu,  my  red-headed  devil.  You  must  win. 
You  will  be  the  best-loved  man  under  the  sun  if 
you  win.  I  know  that  Stefan  will  down  Marin, 
but  you  must  down  Stefan,  you  must,  you 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS    39 

must.  Mincu,  my  red-headed  lover  .  .  .  you 
must,  you  must." 

It  was  such  an  unexpected  turn  that  the  young 
gypsy  was  taken  by  surprise. 

Lina  rose,  and  going  to  the  door,  she  beckoned 
to  Mincu  to  follow  her  out.  Once  outside  Lina 
pressed  the  boy  to  her  bosom  and  kissed  him 
again  and  again  as  she  said,  "You  must  win, 
Mincu.  If  you  lose  I  will  kill  myself  .  .  .  you 
must  win!" 

"I  will,"  Mincu  answered,  and  kissed  her  on 
the  mouth  before  returning  hurriedly  to  the  barn, 
where  pandemonium  now  reigned.  Stefan  had 
thrown  Marin  and  was  slowly  pressing  his 
shoulders  to  the  ground.  Marin's  people  begged 
their  man  to  rally  and  rise  but  he  was  all 
winded  and  suddenly  collapsed  like  a  punctured 


Next  minute  the  affair  threatened  to  end  in  a 
free-for-all  fight.  The  irresponsible,  irrepres- 
sible gypsy  blood  was  getting  the  upper  hand. 
All  danger,  all  practical  conduct  was  about  to 
be  forgotten.  And  again  Murdo  saved  the  situ- 
ation. By  reason  of  age  he  was  the  supreme 
ruler,  the  barossan. 

"The  first  man  who  speaks  louder  than  is  nec- 
essary will  be  a  dead  man,"  he  shouted.  "Where 
is  Mincu?" 

"Here  I  am,  barossan"  called  Mincu,  as  he 
edged  his  way  to  the  ring. 


40    THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS 

"When  will  you  be  ready,  Stefan?"  asked 
Murdo. 

"Ready  for  what?"  asked  Stefan,  in  seeming 
astonishment. 

"To  wrestle  with  Mincu,  man!" 

"Why  should  I  wrestle  with  Mincu?" 

"For  Lina." 

"For  Lina!"  exclaimed  Stefan.  "I  wrestle 
for  Lina!  Ptui  .  .  .  who  wants  her  ...  I? 
Do  I  want  Lina,  Stancu's  Lina,  you  think? 
Ptui!  Is  Cozinca  not  nicer  than  a  thousand 
Linas?  Come  here,  Cozinca!"  and  Stefan  folded 
a  pretty  gypsy  girl  in  his  long  arms. 

According  to  the  code  of  the  gypsies  Stefan 
had  committed  a  dozen  crimes  at  that  moment. 
First,  the  affront  to  Lina;  then  to  her  father; 
the  affront  to  Stancu's  tribe;  the  insult  directed 
to  Mincu,  who  gets  a  wife  another  man  refuses 
to  fight  for;  the  insult  to  Murdo's  tribe;  and 
many  other  major  and  minor  offenses  develop- 
ing from  the  one. 

For  a  moment  everybody  looked  at  Mincu; 
then  the  attention  was  shifted  to  Murdo,  who 
called  aloud:  "Lina  is  Mincu's  wife!  Now  let 
us  drink  to  their  happiness!" 

The  men  were  anxious  that  it  all  end  that  way; 
that  it  be  drowned  in  noise  and  wine. 

They  were  all  thirsty.  The  fiddlers  began  to 
play.  The  young  ones  to  dance.  Mincu  and 
Lina  sat  alone  in  a  corner.  Lina  was  staring 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS     41 

vacantly  before  her.  Her  mouth  twitched  and 
she  was  all  atremble. 

Stefan  had  taken  his  revenge.  For  weeks 
he  had  begged  her  to  be  his  wife.  She  had  re- 
fused him.  Now  he  had  revenged  himself.  And 
with  Cozinca!  Cozinca,  her  deadliest  enemy. 
Lina  doubted  not  but  that  Cozinca  had  engi- 
neered it  all.  Only  a  woman  could  have  planned 
it  all  to  such  detail.  Stefan  had  fought  Marin 
not  because  he  wanted  to  avenge  the  old  wrong. 
Not  because  he  wanted  to  have  her,  to  win  her, 
Lina.  Not  even  to  revenge  himself,  but  to  please 
Cozinca.  It  was  clear  .  .  .  clear  as  daylight! 

Mincu,  too,  was  downhearted.  With  one 
gesture  Stefan  had  transformed  Lina  from  a 
queen  to  the  last  woman  on  earth.  "Ptui," 
Stefan  had  spat  out  after  pronouncing  Lina's 
name.  She  was  not  worth  fighting  for.  That 
bride  near  him  was  a  woman  another  man  had 
refused. 

Murdo's  conclusion  was  mistaken.  Lina  could 
not  be  his  wife  as  long  as  Stefan  lived.  It  was 
the  code  of  morals  ...  it  was  the  law.  Mincu 
sat  and  brooded  near  his  absent-minded  bride. 
Neither  of  them  spoke  to  the  other.  Before  day- 
light, while  the  men  were  drinking  and  singing 
and  the  youths,  were  dancing,  Stefan  and  Mincu 
left  the  barn.  Mincu  was  the  first  to  leave.  And 
when  Stefan  was  seen  to  follow  him  every  one 
knew  what  was  going  to  happen,  yet  no  one  in- 


42    THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS 

terfered.  The  fiddlers  stopped  their  playing. 
The  dancing  ceased.  Everybody  was  silent, 
with  ears  to  the  wind  and  eyes  to  the  door.  Lina 
looked  in  the  direction  of  Cozinca,  then  she  took 
out  a  little  hand-mirror  from  between  the  folds 
of  her  colored  skirts  and  began  to  comb  her  long, 
black  hair. 

A  little  later  Mincu  appeared,  alone,  at  the 
barn-door.  A  ready  hand  smothered  Cozinca's 
first  cry  and  she  was  carried  to  the  tent  of  her 
mother.  Then  everybody  left  the  barn  leaving 
the  two  lovers  to  themselves. 

The  four  chiefs  buried  the  dead  Stefan. 

To  avoid  further  trouble  the  men  of  each  tribe 
kept  apart  by  themselves  and  the  common  eve- 
nings were  given  up.  January  was  a  very  cold 
month.  Snowstorms  and  winds  followed  one  an- 
other. Half  the  men  slept  near  the  horses  and 
when  the  nights  were  very  cold  even  women  and 
children  huddled  together  in  the  barn,  covering 
themselves  with  straw  and  hay. 

In  the  temporary  repair  shops  the  men 
wielded  the  hammers,  blew  the  bellows,  and 
wrought  the  iron  for  the  wheels  of  the  wagons. 

Mincu,  too,  was  very  busy.  He  was  the  ablest 
of  them  all  at  trade.  In  the  neighboring  inns  he 
learned,  here  and  there,  of  a  horse  a  peasant  had 
for  sale  and  of  a  horse  a  man  wanted  to  buy  and 
frequently  made  a  neat  profit  without  even  bring- 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS    43 

ing  the  animal  to  the  camp.  And  with  this 
money  he  bought  for  his  Lina  vivid  red  shawls, 
and  colored  glass  beads,  and  hair-combs,  and  sil- 
ver rings,  and  bracelets.  Yet  the  more  he  showed 
his  love  to  her  the  more  she  turned  away  from  him. 

"You  are  only  a  slave,  Murdo's  slave,"  she  said 
every  day  to  him.  "You  are  all  a  tribe  of  slaves 
and  Stefan  was  a  thousand  times  a  better  man 
than  you  are." 

At  first  he  laughed  at  what  she  said.  As  she 
was  the  daughter  of  a  chief  he  understood  her 
reluctance  at  having  her  husband  follow  another 
man's  orders.  She  was  only  a  foolish  woman. 
There  was  no  hope  of  his  ever  becoming  the  chief 
of  the  tribe.  Murdo's  son,  Nicolai,  was  the  suc- 
cessor. But  in  the  long  winter  nights  she  spoke 
of  nothing  else.  She  used  all  the  methods  at  her 
command.  She  cried,  she  refused  herself,  she  flat- 
tered, she  cajoled.  Why!  All  he  had  to  do  was 
to  gain  ascendency  over  the  other  men.  Murdo 
was  old  and  kept  himself  apart  from  all.  She 
knew  that  there  were  many  who  were  dissatisfied 
with  his  rule.  As  to  Nicolai,  he  was  a  weakling. 
All  he  cared  for  was  his  violin.  Why  should  he 
not  attempt  it?  Her  red-headed  devil  was 
stronger  and  cleverer  than  any  of  the  men.  He 
was  only  a  slaye  to  an  old  man.  Why  should 
Murdo  tell  him  where  to  go  and  what  to  do? 
Why  should  Murdo  take  all  his  money?  Why 
should  she,  Lina,  have  to  hide  from  view  the  most 


44    THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS 

beautiful  things  Mincu  had  given  her,  lest  Murdo 
demand  an  account?  Cozinca  wore  more  jewels 
now  than  she.  Had  he  not  seen  her  new  combs  ? 
Her  new  bracelets?  Yet  she,  Lina,  Stancu's 
daughter,  the  daughter  of  the  best  trader  in  the 
tribe,  had  to  hide  her  husband's  gifts,  because  in 
Murdo's  tribe  all  the  earnings  had  to  be  given  to 
the  chief. 

The  whole  winter  she  worked  on  the  man's 
nerves.  When  the  snow  was  beginning  to  thaw 
Mincu's  resistance  also  thawed  and  he  began  by 
criticizing  Nicolai  for  his  inactivity. 

"A  fine  chief  he  will  make,  that  fiddler  son  of 
Murdo's,"  he  said  to  the  men. 

He  related  to  Lina  what  he  had  said  to  the 
men  and  his  wife  kissed  him  and  danced  for  joy. 

"That  is  a  good  beginning,"  she  said  enthu- 
siastically. 

The  following  day  he  reported  to  Lina  that 
the  smith  and  his  helper  had  talked  over  what  he 
had  said. 

"True  enough,"  they  had  said,  "Nicolai  is 
nothing  more  than  a  weakling." 

"Let  them  talk.  Don't  go  near  them  for  a  few 
days.  Let  them  forget  who  said  the  first  word," 
she  advised  Mincu.  He  did  as  he  was  told.  He 
relied  on  her  ability  for  intrigue. 

"You  will  see,  red-headed  lover  of  mine.  I 
will  wear  all  the  jewels  in  broad  daylight.  Those 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS    45 

I  have  and  many  more  that  you  will  buy  for  me. 
Cozinca  will  rage  and  rave." 

A  week  before  Easter  Mincu,  guided  by  Lina, 
had  brought  the  situation  to  such  a  point  that 
there  was  unanimous  dissatisfaction  with  Nico- 
lai.  And  when  Mincu  dared  to  make  merry 
about  the  violin-playing  of  Murdo's  son  the  men 
laughed  with  him. 

The  Sunday  before  Easter  Lina  gave  Mincu 
twenty  ducats  in  gold,  from  the  money  her 
mother  had  given  her  secretly  as  a  wedding-gift, 
and  told  her  husband  to  deliver  the  money  to  the 
chief  in  the  presence  of  all. 

'  'Here,'  you  should  say,  'Profits  from  a  day's 
trade.' ' 

He  did  as  she  told  him.  Murdo  said  that  he 
had  always  known  Mincu  to  be  a  wonderful 
trader. 

When  the  men  complimented  Lina's  husband, 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said  that  he  could 
make  as  much  every  day  .  .  .  only  what  was  the 
use  ?  To  enrich  that  fool  of  a  Nicolai  ?  And  why 
did  Murdo  himself  not  go  after  trade  instead  of 
sitting  in  his  tent  counting  the  hairs  of  his 
beard  ? 

At  any  other  time  he  would  have  fared  badly 
for  such  remarks  about  the  chief,  but  those 
twenty  ducats  in  gold  gave  him  some  rights.  The 
gypsies  were  short  in  money.  They  had  had  too 
many  losses  the  previous  year.  A  few  days  later 


46    THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS 

Mincu  again  returned  from  town  with  golden 
ducats  and  presents  for  a  few  men  and  their 
wives. 

On  Good  Friday  he  brought  forty  gold  pieces, 
He  spoke  to  the  men  before  seeing  Murdo. 

"Enough  to  buy  a  new  fiddle  for  Nicolai, 
hein?" 

The  hint  was  a  reminder  that  Nicolai  had 
bought  a  new  violin  a  day  or  two  before. 

For  Easter-time  Lina  decked  herself  in  all 
the  jewels  and  covered  her  shoulders  with  the 
reddest  of  red  silk  shawls.  The  white  silk  basma 
over  her  black  hair  was  also  a  very  expensive 
affair. 

The  weather  was  favorable  to  the  display  of 
vivid  colors.  An  early  spring  had  greened  the 
fields  and  the  forests.  Already  the  horses  were 
pasturing  where  yesterday  the  wolf  had  lain  in 
ambush.  Young  and  old  turned  out  in  the  fields. 
It  was  as  if  life  itself  had  thawed  out.  Mincu 
and  Lina  rode  on  two  of  the  best  horses;  he  in 
wide  blue  pantaloons  falling  in  broad  folds  over 
new  patent-leather  boots,  a  silver-studded  sleeve- 
less jacket  over  an  embroidered  linen  shirt,  and 
a  red  silk  sash ;  and  she  in  a  multitude  of  skirts 
made  of  silks  of  all  colors  which  reached  only  a 
little  below  the  knees.  On  her  feet  she  had  a 
pair  of  fine  new  patent-leather  boots.  Below  the 
elbows  her  arms  were  heavily  laden  with  brace- 
lets of  all  metals  and  in  all  shapes:  silver  snakes, 


golden  bands  ending  in  tiger  heads,  twisted  cop- 
per rings,  wide,  filigreed  hoops.  From  the  neck 
hung  salbas  of  golden  ducats,  and  long  ear- 
rings reached  her  shoulders. 

Lina  took  care  that  Cozinca  should  see  her. 

The  whole  day  Mincu  and  Lina  rode  together. 
They  rode  into  the  town  and  every  one  stared  at 
them.  So  much  color  and  so  many  jewels  had 
never  been  worn  by  any  gypsy  in  the  memory  of 
even  the  eldest  inhabitant.  They  stopped  at  inns 
and  winehouses  and  made  merry  with  the  peas- 
ants and  the  townspeople.  They  bought  painted 
eggs,  sticks  of  candy,  sugar  waffles,  and  candy 
whistles,  and  in  one  place,  very  close  to  the 
gypsy  camp,  Lina  danced  the  Hora  with  the 
villagers.  There  were  many  gypsies  around  the 
wide  dancing  circle,  there  were  beautiful  young 
gypsy  girls,  but  not  one  had  dared  to  try  to 
dance  with  the  village  folk.  It  was  never  done. 

News  of  Lina's  and  Mincu's  success  preceded 
them  to  the  camp.  When  they  appeared,  to- 
wards sundown,  the  people  of  the  four  tribes 
received  them  with  great  respect. 

Murdo  watched  the  two  as  they  dismounted. 
Then  he  called  to  Mincu  sharply,  "Come  here, 
Mincu." 

Mincu  fidgeted  for  a  while  as  he  was  caught 
between  the  eyes  of  his  chief  and  his  wife.  Lina 
expected  him  to  revolt,  the  other  to  submit. 
Murdo  also  had  caught  Lina's  telling  glance. 


48    THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS 

The  people  separated  and  lined  themselves  on 
both  sides,  leaving  a  narrow  space  between  the 
two  men. 

Slowly,  reluctantly,  with  lowered  eyes,  Mincu 
approached  the  chief.  Murdo  looked  at  him 
with  contempt.  The  suspense  was  crushing. 

"From  where  come  all  these  trinkets  and  sal- 
bos  on  your  wife,  Mincu?"  he  finally  asked. 

Mincu  could  have  answered  that  they  be- 
longed to  Lina,  were  given  to  her  by  her  mother, 
he  even  intended  to  do  so,  but  he  answered  in- 
stead, "I  bought  them." 

"And  who  gave  you  permission?" 

"It  was  my  money,  I  earned  it  ...  my  trade 
...  or  should  I  give  all  the  money  to  buy  fiddles 
for  Nicolai?" 

What  he  had  said  was  a  mechanical  repetition 
of  words  Lina  had  put  into  his  mouth. 

"What?"  bellowed  Murdo,  as  his  hand  gripped 
the  handle  of  a  long  knife  he  carried  in  his  belt. 

Mincu,  too,  was  ready.  His  hand  had  traveled 
in  the  same  direction  as  his  chief's.  And  his 
fingers  too  had  coiled  around  a  knife's  handle. 

"Oh!"  Murdo  exclaimed,  and  instantly  his 
hand  dropped  from  his  belt.  "No,  not  the  knife. 
My  great-grandfather  Lupu  won  the  leadership 
of  this  tribe  by  another  weapon,  the  Inarapnic, 
the  whip.  At  midnight  I  and  he,"  Murdo  ad- 
dressed his  men,  "enter  the  forest,  bare  to  the 
waist — with  whips  as  weapons.  Only  one  man 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS    49 

comes  out:  the  ruler.  I  have  spoken,"  and 
Murdo  returned  slowly  to  his  tent. 

The  harapmc!  It  was  the  most  horrible 
weapon  Murdo  could  have  chosen.  The  news 
spread,  like  a  prairie  fire,  among  all  the  gypsies. 
Stancu,  Lina's  father,  went  to  see  Murdo  and 
talked  to  him  about  it. 

"It's  a  terrible  thing,  friend.  .  .  .  Choose  an- 
other weapon." 

"It  is  not  a  punishment,  it  is  a  contest,  Stancu. 
He  wants  to  be  chief.  The  best  man  wins.  He 
is  young  and  strong.  My  great-grandfather,  my 
stremosh,  Lupu,  came  to  the  rulership  by  the 
whip.  I  will  defend  it  with  the  same  weapon," 
and  as  he  spoke  with  Stancu,  Murdo  slowly  oiled 
the  braided  leather  tongue  of  the  terrible  harap- 
rdc,  the  whip  used  to  break  the  stubbornest  horse. 
From  Murdo's  tent  Stancu  went  to  the  tent  of 
his  daughter.  She  was  still  fully  dressed  and 
decked  in  all  her  jewelry. 

"Lina,  that  was  your  work!"  the  father 
charged  his  daughter. 

"I  am  the  daughter  of  a  chief,  and  my  man 
must  also  be  a  chief." 

"And  you,  Mincu,  have  you  nothing  to  say? 
If  you  become  the  chief  I  shall  not  be  the  only 
one  to  know  that  you  are  the  slave  of  a  woman. 
Even  if  you  Lived  a  thousand  years  you  could 
never  acquire  Murdo's  wisdom.  Go  to  him,  ask 
publicly  for  penance,  and  you  will  be  honored 


50    THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS 

more  even  than  if  you  became  chieftain/'  spoke 
Stancu  to  his  daughter's  husband. 

But  Lina  refused  to  let  her  father  talk  further 
and  she  asked  him  to  leave  them  alone.  The  old 
man  left  the  tent  shrugging  his  shoulders  and 
muttering,  "Serpents,  serpents." 

"Don't  fear,  Mincu,  my  red-headed  devil. 
You  will  soon  come  back  and  be  the  ruler.  I 
have  prepared  oils  that  will  take  the  heat  out 
of  the  wounds  on  your  body.  You  will  not  feel 
them  at  all,"  Lina  cooed  softly  to  her  man. 

Mincu  looked  at  her.  What  had  he  not  al- 
ready done  for  that  woman!  He  had  killed 
Stefan.  He  had  lied  to  his  friends.  Cheated  his 
chief.  Mocked  at  Nicolai.  And  now  he  was 
going  to  fight  Murdo.  And  with  the  whip !  He 
had  seen  the  old  chief  handle  the  braided  leather 
tongue.  It  opened  a  deep  gash  where  it  struck. 
It  broke  the  tough  skin  of  a  horse,  laid  the  flesh 
open  to  the  bone  where  it  landed.  Mincu  went 
to  the  place  where  he  kept  his  whip.  He  had 
braided  it  himself  from  cowhide  strips.  A  good 
whip.  It  was  the  pride  of  his  youth.  Even  the 
best  giambash,  horsedealer,  had  admired  it. 
It  was  a  work  of  art.  Nine  strips  braided  to- 
gether. The  short  handle,  too,  was  covered  with 
braided  leather.  It  was  easy  to  grip  and  hold. 

But  Murdo!  His  arm;  his  arm  of  steel.  And 
Mincu  knew  that  Murdo,  for  all  the  years  he 
carried,  was  younger  in  body  than  the  youngest. 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS    51 

While  he  sat  and  brooded  Lina  spoke  words  of 
cheer  to  him.  Why!  Did  he  not  feel  that  he 
was  born  to  be  a  ruler?  Did  he  want  his  children 
to  slave  for  such  as  Nicolai?  For  such  as 
Stefan  ?  And  did  he  not  know  that  Cozinca  was 
to  marry  Nicolai,  just  to  spite  her  and  persecute 
her  and  him  and  their  children  as  soon  as  her 
husband  should  become  the  chief  of  the  tribe? 

At  midnight  the  two  men,  bare  to  the  waist, 
with  harapnics  in  hand,  entered  the  forest.  The 
night  was  clear  and  warm.  Over  the  top  of  the 
naked  forest  the  cold  moon  glided  in  a  warm 
blue  sky.  As  soon  as  the  men  had  entered  the 
forest  the  gypsies  began  to  build  fires  and  sit 
around  them.  Softly  at  first,  but,  as  time 
went  on,  louder  and  louder,  some  of  the  gypsies 
began  to  sing  a  slow,  moaning  song.  As  the 
tension  increased  the  song  became  louder  and 
the  rhythm  less  firm,  until  it  became  a  series  of 
howls,  wild,  savage,  hysterical  shrieks,  that  had 
been  pent  up  for  too  long  in  the  breasts  of  men. 

Each  camp  tried  to  outdo  the  other.  The  dogs 
howled,  the  women  cried,  the  men  shrieked,  the 
cows  mooed,  and  even  the  horses  neighed  and 
whinnied. 

Hour  after  hour  passed  slowly.  When  the 
gypsies  could  no  longer  shout  or  howl,  they  got 
dish-pans  from  the  tents  and  beat  them  with  their 
fists  and  with  sticks  as  they  thronged  round  and 


52    THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS 

round  the  fire  in  a  mad  dance. 

Every  once  in  a  while  there  was  absolute 
silence  when  some  one  shouted  that  he  had  heard 
a  cry  from  the  forest;  had  heard  the  swish  of  a 
whip.  But  always  it  proved  to  be  a  false  alarm. 
The  increased  velocity  of  the  wind.  The  call  of 
a  bird  to  its  mate.  A  scared  fox. 

At  daylight  the  fires  were  extinguished.  The 
noise  ceased  and  all  faces  were  turned  towards 
the  fringe  of  the  forest. 

An  hour  after  sunrise,  Murdo,  whip  in  hand, 
his  body  covered  with  blood,  a  diagonal  gash 
across  his  face,  reeled  out  from  behind  the  trees. 
The  first  person  he  saw  was  Lina.  He  looked  at 
her  steadily,  and,  as  he  looked  at  her,  a  new  idea 
sprang  into  life.  Decked  in  all  her  jewelry,  she 
was  waiting  outside  the  opening  of  her  tent.  In 
two  jumps  the  old,  bleeding  chief  was  near  the 
woman. 

"So  .  .  .  you  wanted  a  chief  for  a  husband, 
woman,  did  you  not?  Here  I  am  ...  an  undis- 
puted chief;  but  .  .  ."  and  tearing  the  jewelry 
from  Lina's  neck  and  ears,  he  continued  in  a 
loud  voice,  "the  trappings  will  go,  the  silken 
dresses,  too;  here,  here,  here,"  and  whirling  the 
whip  over  his  head  he  let  it  fall  once  across  Lina's 
bare  body.  "Take  this,  too  .  .  .  taste  it  ...  it 
will  do  you  good." 

And   turning   to   the   assembled    people   he 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  LAWLESS    53 

yelled,  "Dance  and  make  merry.  It's  Murdo's 
wedding-day !" 

And  they  danced  and  made  merry  the  whole 
day  long,  while  Lina  was  applying  the  oils  and 
salves  she  had  prepared  for  Mincu  to  the  wounds 
of  her  new  husband. 

In  her  tent  Cozinca  was  crying,  "Lina  has 
played  with  loaded  dice.  She  won.  She  won 
even  more  when  she  lost." 


VLAD'S  SON 

IT  was  my  father's  boast  that  he  had  half  of 
Europe  at  his  feet.  A  flat-bottomed  rowboat  or 
a  spacious  log  raft  was  always  moored  to  an  iron 
ring  embedded  in  the  rock  on  which  we  built  our 
home  on  the  shore  of  the  Danube.  And  every 
good  Rumanian  holds  that  the  Danube  is  half  of 
Europe. 

Back  of  the  house  rolled  an  undulating  stretch 
of  pasture-ground,  in  which  roamed  the  cattle  of 
the  village.  It  was  the  common  pasture-ground 
of  the  community.  The  cows  came  there  from 
miles  away  early  every  morning  and  returned 
home  by  themselves  in  time  for  the  evening's 
milking.  Watch-dogs,  sure-footed  and  heavy- 
coated,  did  their  hereditary  duty  without  any 
one's  paying  any  special  attention  to  them.  Food 
they  had  in  plenty;  the  slaughter-house  was  not 
far  from  the  pasture. 

Twice  every  year  the  same  stretch  did  duty  as 
fair-grounds.  Early  every  spring,  even  before 
the  snow  had  melted,  tents  and  shanties  were 
put  up  and  for  fully  ten  days  before  Easter 
the  peasants  of  our  village  and  the  surrounding 
villages,  with  their  women  and  children,  were  in 

54 


VLAD'S  SON  55 

the  khan — the  inn — from  early  morning  to  late 
at  night. 

At  the  close  of  the  fair  there  was  not  a  red 
copper  left  in  the  district.  Most  of  the  money 
had  gone  to  foreign  lands.  From  the  Tartars 
the  Rumanian  peasants  bought  young  long- 
horned  oxen;  from  the  Russians,  furs;  long- 
haired, heavy-mustached  Hungarians  from 
Budapest  and  short-sighted  Germans  from  Leip- 
zig sold  them  plows  and  cultivators,  and,  coming 
from  far  America,  a  Yankee  salesman  sold 
brightly  colored  harvesting-machines,  binders 
and  mowers,  which  attracted  considerable  atten- 
tion, not  only  for  themselves  but  because  they 
were  brought  from  America — from  far  away, 
from  so  far  away.  .  .  .  This  alone  gave  them  a 
romantic  glamour  in  the  eyes  of  the  Rumanians. 

The  spring  fair  was  the  buying-fair,  but  in 
the  fall,  after  the  cattle  were  stabled,  the  wheat 
threshed  and  the  corn  put  away  in  the  cribs,  the 
fair-grounds  were  given  over  to  the  selling  of 
the  products  of  the  land — wheat,  rye,  corn,  honey, 
sheep,  pigs,  cows  and  horses.  The  peasants 
brought  all  they  had  to  the  yarmarock.  The 
money  thus  obtained  for  their  products  in  those 
ten  days  was  all  the  income  for  the  year.  And 
those  ten  days  and  the  ten  days  after  and  more, 
if  the  summer  had  been  a  good  one  and  prices 
decent,  were  days  of  great  gayety,  with  the  never- 
ending  music  of  the  tziganes  and  the  never-end- 


56  VLAD'S  SON 

ing  flow  of  newly  pressed  wine  oozing  from  the 
wooden  wine-press  directly  into  the  earthen 
pitcher,  and  never-ending  dancing,  singing  and 
shouting. 

Not  a  day  passed  without  a  wedding.  It  was 
the  month  of  Sfintu  Dumitru,  the  month  during 
which  nearly  all  the  weddings  of  the  rural  dis- 
tricts of  Rumania  take  place. 

The  yearly  fall  fair  of  Cerna  Voda  was  one 
of  the  best  known  in  Rumania.  The  gypsies 
swarmed  in  from  all  sides.  Horse-trading  tribes 
came  in  their  high-wheeled  wagons  drawn  by 
small  Moldavian  ponies ;  coppersmith  tribes  came 
on  foot,  the  men  carrying  the  kettles  and  tongs  on 
their  backs  and  the  women  in  gayly  colored 
dresses  embroidered  in  gold  and  silver  holding 
the  small  children  on  their  shoulders  and  balanc- 
ing the  family  belongings,  the  blankets  and  the 
quilts  on  their  heads;  while  the  older  children, 
half-naked  and  barefooted,  marched  in  droves 
back  of  the  tribe.  Gypsy  musicians  played  the 
violin  and  the  flute  on  the  road  as  they  marched, 
quarreling,  fighting  and  holding  musical  contests 
under  the  blue  sky  on  the  edge  of  a  forest,  with 
their  bare  feet  dangling  in  the  water  of  some  lake 
or  brook. 

And  one  must  not  forget  the  blond  Slovaks 
and  Croats,  as  they  came  in  their  furred  pants 
and  long  sheepskin  coats,  with  heavy  rolls  of 
steel  and  copper  wire  dangling  on  their  shoul- 


VLAD'S  SON  57 

ders,  working  as  they  walked,  twisting  the  wires 
into  all  sorts  of  useful  things — rat-traps,  sieves, 
rings,  dog-collars  and  clothes-pins,  calling  out 
their  wares  to  the  empty  space  by  sheer  force  of 
habit;  docile  and  patient  beasts  of  burden,  known 
never  to  grumble,  never  to  rest ;  in  one  year  tra- 
versing Rumania  from  one  end  of  the  Carpathian 
Mountains  to  the  other  and  in  the  following 
year  all  the  length  of  the  Danube  to  where  the 
river  falls  into  the  Black  Sea;  lying  down  to  sleep 
where  the  night  overtook  them,  in  the  dust  of 
the  road  in  summer  and  in  hastily  built  snow- 
huts  in  the  winter. 

To  the  people  of  Cerna  Voda,  in  fact  to  the 
whole  population  of  the  Dobrudja,  Vlad's  gypsy 
tribe  was  one  of  the  best  known.  All  his  peo- 
ple, men,  women  and  children,  were  never  re- 
ferred to  by  their  names.  The  peasant  merely 
designated  them  as  a  Vlad  man  or  a  Vlad  woman. 

Vlad,  the  chief,  was  the  ruler ;  his  word  was  law 
for  the  fourscore  and  more  people  composing 
his  tribe.  And  before  his  wrath  they  all  trembled 
and  the  strongest  of  them  was  cowed  by  just  one 
glance  from  Vlad's  lone,  big  dark  eye. 

The  gypsy  chief  was  a  tall,  straight,  well-built 
man  of  fifty  with  long  red  hair  and  beard,  with 
a  thin  black  mustache  hardly  covering  a  high 
overlip  under  a  well-lined  nose.  As  lithe  and 
noiseless  as  a  panther  in  his  gait,  quiet-spoken, 


58  VLAD'S  SON 

calm,  he  gave  the  impression  of  the  born  ruler  of 
men,  the  man  who  dictated  life  and  death. 

He  never  bartered.  But  before  any  deal  was 
closed  by  any  of  his  men  he  was  consulted,  and 
his  word  was  the  last.  His  knowledge  of  horses 
was  uncanny,  and  the  peasants  were  convinced 
that  he  could  speak  to  a  horse  in  its  language  and 
order  it  to  do  just  what  he  wanted. 

It  was  known  also  that  Vlad  was  the  best 
horse-thief,  and  because  he  had  never  been  caught 
he  was  held  in  great  respect.  No  matter  how 
well  a  horse  was  guarded,  if  Vlad  had  taken  a 
fancy  to  it  the  animal  disappeared  from  the 
stable.  And  once  gone,  it  was  gone  forever. 
And  because  Vlad  stole  only  the  best,  it  was  a 
compliment  to  the  owner  when  the  lone-eyed, 
red-headed  gypsy  chief  stole  the  animal. 

That  year  had  been  a  great  one  for  farmers 
on  the  shore  of  the  Danube.  There  had  been 
plenty  of  seasonal  rain,  and  when  the  wheat  was 
ready  to  be  harvested,  the  sun  baked  the  ground 
dry.  The  sheaves  had  never  been  heavier;  the 
corn,  too,  had  yielded  more  than  in  any  other 
year. 

Because  of  droughts  in  other  places,  grain 
prices  were  so  high  that  after  the  fall  fair  was 
over  each  peasant  had  more  money  in  his  pockets 
than  he  had  ever  had  before.  There  were  not 
enough  musicians  to  play  at  all  the  weddings  that 


VLAD'S  SON  59 

took  place,  and  each  wedding  feast  lasted  at  least 
three  days.  The  tziganes,  the  musicians,  law- 
tars,  worked  themselves  to  death,  snatching  bits 
of  sleep  on  their  feet  as  they  played  the  inter- 
minable waltzes  and  doinas  for  the  joyous  youths. 

In  the  thick  of  this  joy,  on  a  Friday,  Vlad's 
tribe  arrived  from  the  Black  Sea.  Much  to  the 
chagrin  of  his  son,  Radu,  who  was  in  love  with 
Anica,  the  daughter  of  the  innkeeper  of  Cerna 
Voda,  the  chief  had  miscalculated  the  time  and 
the  tribe  was  too  late  for  the  fair.  But  because 
men  and  beasts  were  tired  Vlad  decided  to  pitch 
camp  on  the  fair-grounds  and  rest.  They  had 
with  them  some  very  fine  horses  and  some  black 
sheep  they  had  brought  from  Astrakhan  to  sell 
for  breeding. 

The  peasant  youth  had  arranged  a  horse-race 
for  the  following  Sunday.  Among  the  riders 
was  Tudor,  the  mayor's  son,  on  a  little  chestnut 
filly  of  his.  She  was  the  pride  of  the  village. 
Mara,  the  filly,  won  the  race  before  she  started 
from  the  post.  If  the  others  partook  in  the  race 
at  all,  it  was  to  see  how  far  behind  the  filly  they 
could  run. 

The  eyes  of  every  one  were  on  the  little  animal, 
which  stowed  away  space  and  air  and  seemed, 
with  her  outstretched  neck  and  fuming  nostrils, 
to  be  thirsty  for  more  and  more  space  to  con- 
quer. 

After  the  race  was  over  the  whole  village  sur- 


60  VLAD'S  SON 

rounded  Tudor  and  his  horse.  The  men  shook 
hands  with  the  young  man,  the  women  covered 
him  with  flowers  and  the  young  girls  braided 
colored  ribbons  taken  from  their  own  hair  into 
the  mane  of  the  little  filly.  Vlad,  the  gypsy, 
stood  at  a  distance,  outside  the  circle  of  Tudor's 
friends. 

From  the  instant  his  eye  had  taken  in  the 
sweep  of  the  little  mare's  shape  he  had  thought  of 
nothing  else.  He  had  never  owned  a  horse  he 
liked  so  well.  Not  even  that  black  stallion,  Stica, 
for  whom  the  whole  tribe  mourned  when  he  died. 

Vlad  had  thought  Stica  to  be  his  last  love, 
that  his  heart  would  never  more  go  out  to  a  horse, 
and  suddenly  that  little  filly  caught  his  eye  and 
awoke  his  inherent  slumbering  passion — a  pas- 
sion which  only  those  of  gypsy  blood  can  under- 
stand. 

Unable  to  hold  out  any  longer,  the  gypsy  chief 
approached  the  beaming  Tudor  and  throwing  his 
arm  round  the  horse's  neck  he  brought  out  the 
right  hand  from  his  pocket  full  of  gold,  and 
said: 

"Take  it  all,  and  give  me  the  horse,  Tudor, 
son  of  Miron." 

Tudor  trembled  as  he  pushed  away  the  hand- 
ful of  gold. 

"This  horse  is  not  for  sale,  man.  Take  your 
gold  away  and  don't  tempt  me." 

The  offer  of  a  handful  of  gold  was  a  great  com- 


VLAD'S  SON  61 

pliment,  coming  as  it  did  from  Vlad,  the  best 
horseman  in  Rumania,  but  the  boy  loved  the 
horse  and  he  knew  that  the  innkeeper's  daugh- 
ter, Anica,  would  never  forgive  him  if  he  ever 
parted  with  Mara.  He  knew  how  passionately 
she  loved  the  horse,  and  he  also  knew  that  if  she 
had  consented  to  marry  him  instead  of  Radu, 
Vlad's  son,  it  was  only  because  he  was  the  owner 
of  Mara. 

"This  horse  is  not  for  sale,  Vlad,"  he  repeated 
again  and  again,  as  he  pushed  the  proffered  gold 
away. 

The  gypsy,  still  with  his  left  arm  round  Mara's 
neck,  called  to  one  of  his  men  and  spoke  a  few 
words  to  him  in  his  own  language.  The  man 
dashed  away  to  the  chief's  tent.  The  peasants 
watched  the  transaction.  Vlad  fixed  his  lone  eye 
on  Tudor,  and  the  boy  fidgeted  with  the  fringes  of 
his  red  sash  and  repeated : 

"It's  not  for  sale,  Vlad.  It's  not  for  sale.  You 
don't  understand,  Vlad.  I  can't  sell  this  horse." 

The  gypsy  messenger  returned  with  two 
leather  pouches,  holding  one  in  each  hand.  Vlad 
called  Tudor  nearer  to  him. 

"Open  your  hands,  boy,"  he  called  out,  and 
as  Tudor  did  so  he  poured  gold-pieces  from  the 
pouch  into  the -cupped  palms. 

"Is  that  enough?"  he  asked,  when  one  of  the 
pouches  was  empty. 

Tudor  raised  his  eyebrows  and  looked  at  the 


62  VLAD'S  SON 

peasants  who  stood  with  mouths  agape  at  the 
sight  of  so  much  gold.  No  one  said  a  word. 
Tudor  was  vacillating,  when  he  suddenly  saw 
Anica  coming  on  a  run  from  the  inn. 

Flushed,  perspiring,  the  clean-limbed,  dark- 
eyed  daughter  of  a  gypsy  woman  and  a  Ruma- 
nian father  rushed  up  to  the  boy  and  with  her 
breath  still  hot  she  asked: 

"You  did  not,  did  you?" 

His  hands  were  full  of  gold  and  Vlad's  hands 
were  round  the  filly's  neck. 

"No,  I  did  not,  Anica,"  he  answered. 

"Then  why  does  Vlad  hold  the  horse?  Let  go 
of  Mara,  Vlad,"  she  said,  trying  to  pry  his  arm 
loose.  "And  you,  Tudor,  give  him  back  his  gold, 
or  all  is  broken  between  us." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  Vlad  remarked.  "This  is  Anica, 
the  innkeeper's  daughter,  is  it  not?  Where  is 
Radu?  Is  he  not  with  you?  He  was  so  anxious 
to  come  to  Cerna  Voda — because  of  you.  Or  is 
this  not  Anica,  the  innkeeper's  daughter?" 

"So  she  is,"  the  peasants  echoed. 

"Well,  well,  look  how  fast  she  has  grown!" 
Vlad  continued  in  an  oily  voice.  "And  Tudor 
is — bless  me,  bless  me — and  I  thought  she  was 
in  love  with  my  son,  Radu — bless  me,  bless 

me The   ways   of   women,   the   ways   of 

women!" 

"I  will  have  none  of  your  Radu;  I  will  have 
none  of  your  people — puppets  without  a  will  of 


VLAD'S  SON  63 

their  own,  who  forever  depend  on  what  Vlad  will 
say  or  do,"  Anica  shouted  at  him.  "And  do 
please  let  go  of  that  horse  and  go  God's  way. 
Let  go,  I  say,"  she  screamed,  as  she  tried  to  lead 
the  horse  away.  "Let  go,  let  go." 

Vlad  looked  at  her. 

"Hold  out  your  hands,  Anica,"  he  ordered, 
and  as  she  obeyed,  without  thinking,  the  gypsy 
chief  emptied  all  the  gold  of  the  second  pouch 
into  her  cupped  hands. 

"And  I  shall  pay  all  the  wedding  expenses  be- 
sides," he  announced,  winking  to  the  peasants, 
"and  I  will  have  to  buy  a  beautiful  girl  for  my 
son,  Radu — one  more  beautiful  than  you,  Anica, 
if  possible." 

People  looked  at  one  another,  not  daring  to 
say  a  word  lest  the  spell  be  broken.  Tudor 
looked  pleadingly  at  his  flushed  gypsy  girl.  So 
much  gold  all  at  once  for  a  horse !  It  was  a  for- 
tune. She  met  his  gaze  with  contempt. 

"No,  Vlad,  that  horse  is  not  for  sale.  As  for 
the  wedding  expenses,  I  give  thanks  to  the  Lord 
that  I  am  not  an  orphan.  Take  your  gold,"  and 
before  Vlad  had  time  to  utter  another  word,  she 
emptied  her  hands,  made  Tudor  empty  his  into 
the  gypsy's  coat  pocket,  and  with  one  jump  she 
was  on  the  horse  and  up  and  away  from  the  fair- 
grounds. 

Vlad,  pale  and  shaking  as  with  the  ague, 
looked  to  the  perplexed  Tudor,  shrugged  his 


64  VLAD'S  SON 

shoulders  and  gave  a  short  laugh.  Then  he  left 
the  crowd  to  enter  his  tent.  The  peasants  sur- 
rounded the  excited  boy. 

"You'd  better  get  the  money,  Tudor,  and  let 
him  have  the  horse." 

"When  Vlad  wants  a  horse,  he  gets  it,"  said 
the  village  priest.  "We  know  that,  don't  we, 
people?" 

"Yes,  he  has  a  way  with  horses.  He  casts  a 
spell  over  them  and  they  evaporate  from  the 
stable  like  thin  air.  You  may  guard  the  stable 
day  and  night,  and  the  horse  disappears.  He  be- 
witches them,"  explained  another  man. 

"He  does,  he  does,"  many  assented. 

"Have  you  not  seen  how  he  looked  at  the  little 
filly?  Who  knows  but  what  the  two  spoke  to- 
gether when  he  had  his  arm  around  her?  Who 
knows?  Who  knows?" 

"Nonsense,"  said  young  Tudor.  "It's  my 
horse  and  I  won't  sell  it.  Have  I  not  as  much 
right  to  own  the  horse  as  a  tzigane?  What?" 

"The  truth  of  the  matter  is,"  explained  Jonica, 
the  oldest  inhabitant  of  Cerna  Voda,  "that  Anica 
does  not  want  him  to  sell  the  horse.  You  know, 

Anica,  really — because  of  her  mother's  blood 

When  they  love  a  horse  they  sacrifice  everything, 
are  ready  to  do  anything — trample  upon  others 
and  even  destroy  themselves  for  a  horse,  for  a 
particular  horse." 

"Have  you  not  heard?"   remarked   another 


VLAD'S  SON  65 

man.  "She  marries  Tudor  instead  of  Radu  be- 
cause Tudor  owns  the  horse,  and  Vlad,  Vlad  is 
ready  to  break  his  son's  heart  for  the  same  horse. 
Ah,  these  gypsies!" 

Nothing  else  was  talked  about  at  the  inn. 

All  the  horse-lore  of  hundreds  of  years  was 
reviewed,  and  it  was  agreed  that  the  price  Vlad 
had  offered  was  the  weight  in  gold  of  that  little 
filly.  And  as  the  wine  mounted  to  the  heads  of 
the  peasants,  bets  were  laid  as  to  whether  Vlad 
would  get  the  horse  or  not. 

Anica,  barefooted,  fleet-limbed,  dressed  only 
in  a  long  white  shirt  of  linen  belted  at  the  waist, 
served  the  drinks  at  the  tables. 

"No,  the  horse  is  not  for  sale,"  she  said  in 
answer  to  all  inquiries. 

"But,  girl,  you  know  very  well  that  if  Vlad 
wants  the  horse  nothing  will  stand  in  his  way. 
You  know  that,  don't  you?  And  is  it  fair  to 
Radu  to  leave  him  for  Tudor  because  of  a  horse?" 
asked  old  Jonica,  the  village's  story-teller.  "And 
Vlad  will  get  the  horse  anyhow." 

"Nonsense.  Tudor  will  hold  watch  day  and 
night,"  the  innkeeper's  daughter  interrupted 
him,  "and  he  can  shoot  straight.  As  to  Radu, 
you  don't  understand,  Tata  Jonica,  you  don't  un- 
derstand. He  is  only  a  puppet,  not  a  man.  He 
should  have  been  here  four  weeks  ago.  Why 
did  he  not  come  in  time? 


66  VLAD'S  SON 

"He  did  not.  He  did  not  come  because  his 
father  had  willed  otherwise.  He,  Radu,  has  no 
will  of  his  own.  That's  it,  Tata  Jonica." 

"Just  like  her  mother,  Reposata,  may  she  rest 
in  peace,"  muttered  the  old  peasant  to  himself 
as  he  watched  Anica  rush  from  table  to  table. 
"Ah,  that  gypsy  blood,  that  tempestuous  blood!" 

"Ah,  youth,  youth,"  the  older  peasants 
laughed.  "Tudor  'will  watch  over  the  horse! 
As  if  it  mattered.  Vlad  will  call  and  it  will  come. 
He  once  bewitched  a  horse,  and  it  came  to  him 
when  he  called — came  riding  through  space  on  a 
broomstick." 

The  village  split  into  two  factions.  One  be- 
lieved that  the  gypsy  would  get  the  horse,  and 
the  other  that  he  would  not.  They  said  that 
Tudor  and  Anica  were  a  match  for  any  gypsy. 

That  very  evening  a  dozen  youths  offered  to 
stand  watch  at  night  to  relieve  Tudor.  One 
climbed  on  the  roof,  armed  to  the  teeth;  two 
young  boys  posted  themselves  in  the  stall,  and 
the  four  sides  of  the  stable  were  guarded  by  two 
men  on  each  side  with  a  sentinel  pacing  up  and 
down  two  hundred  feet  away.  For  it  was  known 
that  Vlad's  cunning  was  much  above  the  ordi- 
nary. At  midnight  the  guard  was  changed,  and 
at  daylight  the  whole  village  was  at  the  khan  to 
inquire  about  the  horse.  Was  Mara  still  there? 

Vlad,  too,  came  in  and  was  followed  by  his  son, 
Radu.  The  young  gypsy,  the  image  of  his 


VLAD'S  SON  67 

father,  walked  up  to  Anica,  and  leaning  far  over 
the  bar,  he  spoke  to  her. 

"So  that  was  behind  all  you  said  to  me  yester- 
day? Hem,  Anica?  So  that's  what  you  did, 
Anica?  Because  of  a  horse  you  threw  me  over 
for  the  mayor's  son.  What  is  he  more  than  I  am, 
I  ask?  Is  he  stronger  than  I  am?  Is  he  richer? 
What  ?  As  if  I  could  not  give  you  a  horse  just  as 
beautiful!  What?" 

"No,"  answered  Anica,  "you  could  not  keep  a 
horse  if  your  father  ordered  it  sold,  and  for  so 
much  gold,  too.  He,  he  is  his  own  master,  not  a 
puppet  of  his  father  as  you  are.  You  are  not 
even  known  by  your  own  name.  You  are  known 
only  as  'Vlad's  son.'  Fancy  how  they  would  call 
me  'Vlad's  son's  wife.'  Phew !"  and  she  spat  on 
the  floor  and  threw  back  her  head  as  she  showed  a 
row  of  glittering  white  teeth. 

"Vlad  is  a  chief,  but  he  is  my  father,"  Radu 
answered.  "I  am  sure  that  he  would  not  be 
against  giving  you  whatever  you  want  if  I 
asked." 

"Not  at  all,"  retorted  Anica.  "Only  yesterday 
he  offered  to  pay  the  expenses  of  the  wedding 
between  Tudor  and  myself  if  I  would  let  him 
have  the  horse." 

Radu  bit  hfs  underlip  and  kept  quiet. 

"And  you  are  all,  all  of  you,  sheep,  cowards. 
Tudor  is  a  man.  I  never  knew  it  until  yester- 
day. Four  handfuls  of  gold  for  a  horse,  and 


68  VLAD'S  SON 

when  I  said  'No,'  he  did  not  have  to  ask  his  father. 
No  it  was." 

"Much  of  a  man,  the  man  who  does  what  a 
woman  wants,"  sneered  the  young  gypsy. 

"But  he  did  not  have  to  ask  his  father.  He 
did  it  because  I  wanted.  He  did  it  to  please  me. 
To  please  me,"  and  she  beat  her  heart  proudly  as 
she  looked  defiantly  at  him. 

She  served  drinks  to  a  few  people.  When  she 
was  free  again  Radu  leaned  over  the  counter 
and  spoke  once  more. 

She  did  not  answer.  She  remembered  long 
walks  in  the  night — kisses,  embraces,  prom- 
ises  

He  looked  into  her  eyes  as  he  drank  the  full 
quart-pitcher  of  wine  in  one  draft. 

"And  suppose  he  would  have  sold  the  horse, 
what  then?"  he  inquired.  "Suppose  he  loses  the 
horse,  Anica?  Suppose  he  loses  the  horse?" 

"There  is  not  enough  gold  in  the  whole  world 
to  buy  that  horse  from  Tudor,  and  he  guards  it 
with  his  life,"  she  replied  to  the  subtle  proposi- 
tion made  by  the  young  gypsy. 

Vlad,  who  sat  all  alone  at  a  table,  heard  the 
words  of  the  girl  and  snickered.  The  gypsy  girl 
looked  at  him  and  trembled. 

"You  had  better  advise  Tudor  to  take  the 
money,"  whispered  a  newly  arrived  customer  in 
the  girl's  ear. 


VLAD'S  SON  69 

"Keep  quiet,  you  drunken  weakling,"  she 
snapped. 

Marin,  the  innkeeper,  came  in  from  the  back 
door.  His  eyes  were  still  heavy  with  sleep.  He 
yawned  as  he  took  a  long  drink  of  prune- juice 
to  put  himself  in  shape  for  the  day's  work  and 
offered  the  bottle  afterward  to  his  customers. 

"Good  morning,  Vlad.  Here  is  his  son,  too, 
grown  big  and  strong.  Take  a  sip,  take  a  sip. 
Here,  it's  a  man's  drink." 

Anica  looked  at  Radu,  as  much  as  to  say: 

"Do  you  hear  how  they  call  you?"  and  the  boy 
bent  his  head  in  shame. 

While  they  were  talking  Tudor  came  in  with 
his  father.  The  mayor,  Miron,  shook  hands  with 
the  gypsy  chief;  they  were  old  friends — had 
swapped  horses  many  a  time,  had  drunk  from  the 
same  glass  in  token  of  friendship. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Vlad." 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Miron,"  Vlad  answered,  as 
he  made  room  for  the  mayor  at  the  table. 

"Marin,  bring  a  fresh  pitcher  and  give  wine 
to  the  men." 

Vlad  and  the  mayor  drank  quietly  and  spoke 
about  the  harvest,  the  fair  and  the  prices  of  wheat 
and  corn.  The  mayor  had  an  inquisitive  mind 
and  wanted  -to  know  news  and  gossip  of  other 
places;  wanted  to  know  about  the  Tartar  chief 
who  had  been  killed  by  one  of  his  women  in  Co- 
cosh,  fifty  miles  from  Cerna,  and  about  the 


70  VLAD'S  SON 

new  bridge  that  was  thrown  over  the  Danube. 

Vlad  knew  all  about  everything,  because  he 
traveled.  Miron  read  about  the  happenings  in  the 
only  newspaper,  which  came  once  a  week  to  the 
village  and  which  he  used  to  explain  to  the  as- 
sembled peasants  in  front  of  the  little  church  on 
Sundays  after  services. 

Excepting  the  priest,  he  was  the  only  man  who 
could  read — with  great  difficulty,  it  is  true,  and 
half  the  words  used  by  the  writers  were  a  mys- 
tery to  him,  but  he  could  get  the  drift  of  what  he 
read  and  translate  it  into  the  flowery  language  of 
the  Rumanian  peasants — the  old  Latin  dialect, 
ornamented  with  Greek,  Turkish  and  Russian. 

Radu  and  Tudor  stood  leaning  against  the 
counter.  Both  were  being  served  by  the  inn- 
keeper's dark-eyed,  dark-haired  daughter.  Each 
talked  to  her  without  looking  at  the  other.  With- 
out any  exchange  of  words  a  drinking-contest 
was  started  between  the  two.  Such  contests 
ended  only  when  one  of  the  contestants  fell  to  the 
floor,  dead  to  the  world  around  him. 

"A  pitcher  of  last  year's  wine,"  ordered  Tu- 
dor. 

"And  of  the  same  for  me,"  ordered  Radu,  and 
both  young  men  gulped  down  the  blood-red  juice 
in  one  draft. 

It  was  a  contest  not  only  of  quantity  but  one 
of  speed  also.  The  peasants  looked  on  and  got 
ready  to  take  up  wagers. 


VLAD'S  SON  71 

"Another  one,"  demanded  Tudor. 

"Here,  too,"  motioned  Radu. 

"Here,  Anica,"  motioned  the  mayor's  son,  as 
he  gave  the  empty  pitcher  again  to  the  girl. 

"Here,  too,  and  bring  me  a  two-quart  pitcher 
this  time,"  the  gypsy  boy  ordered. 

Anica  hesitated.  In  a  drinking-contest  the 
same  measure  was  served  to  the  contestants.  It 
was  an  old  rule.  And  Radu  was  strong.  He 
could  drink,  she  knew  that. 

"Just  bring  him  a  pitcher  the  same  as  mine," 
Tudor  spoke  excitedly  as  he  straightened  up. 

"I  asked  for  a  double  pitcher,"  insisted  Radu, 
as  his  fingers  coiled  around  the  hilt  of  his  knife, 
which  protruded  over  the  broad  red  belt. 

He  looked  only  at  the  girl,  facing  her  across 
the  counter. 

"Give  what  I  ordered." 

The  mayor  and  the  gypsy  chief  had  watched 
the  contest  between  their  sons  from  their  seats 
on  a  bench  behind  a  table  on  the  farther  end  of 
the  wall.  They  were  watching  the  contest  with 
extraordinary  intensity,  which  they  screened  with 
talk  about  crops  and  travel. 

But  the  moment  Radu  had  grasped  the  hilt  of 
his  knife  and  the  peasants  had  drawn  in  a  circle 
Ito  make  room  for  the  fight,  Vlad  jumped  up  and 
yelled  to  his  son: 

"Return  to  your  tent!" 

Radu's  fingers  uncoiled  from  the  knife,  his 


72  VLAD'S  SON 

arm  dropped  limply  by  his  side  and  he  prepared 
to  leave.  He  looked  into  the  lone  eye  of  his 
father  as  he  retreated  from  the  counter.  He 
looked  again  at  his  father  and  at  the  girl,  and  as 
the  door  framed  his  erect  body,  he  called  out: 

"Father,  you  have  gone  too  far." 

Then  he  laughed  and  stepped  out  into  the 
road. 

"That's  what  I  call  a  father's  rule,"  spoke  an 
old  peasant. 

"Radu  is  just  a  plain  coward,"  said  Anica,  as 
she  went  on  with  her  work.  "No  man  could  order 
me  around  that  way.  And  he  is  a  man!  Calls 
himself  a  man,  ha!" 

A  week  passed  and  then  another  week,  and  the 
horse  was  still  in  Tudor's  stable.  The  youth  of 
the  village  watched  over  it  day  and  night.  After 
the  second  week  Vlad  could  no  longer  enter  the 
inn  without  being  jeered  at.  That  it  should  take 
him  so  long  to  make  good  the  silent  threat  was  a 
sign  of  decay.  He  was  getting  old,  too  old. 

Everybody  looked  at  him  with  contempt.  The 
people  who  had  bet  that  he  would  get  the  horse 
wondered  that  he,  Vlad,  should  have  lost  his  cun- 
ning, and  the  young  men  who  watched  the  horse 
openly  laughed  at  him. 

"Vlad's  other  eye  was  the  better  one,"  they  said 
to  one  another,  loud  enough  for  the  gypsy  chief  to 
hear. 


VLAD'S  SON  73 

He  had  lost  his  other  eye  in  a  fight  with  a 
Tartar  whom  he  had  killed. 

His  own  people,  too,  began  to  lose  faith  in  him 
and  no  longer  feared  their  ruler.  Several  deals 
were  closed  by  his  son,  Radu,  without  his  permis- 
sion. It  was  an  unprecedented  infringement  of 
his  law.  But  his  son  grew  more  and  more  dar- 
ing. 

Vlad  had  met  Radu  late  at  night  hovering 
around  the  stable  where  the  filly  was  kept,  and 
although  he  had  ordered  him  away  he  had  met 
him  there  again  and  again  and  had  to  make  be- 
lieve that  he  did  not  see  him  at  all. 

The  gypsies  asked  one  another  why  they  were 
still  staying  in  Cerna  Voda.  Through  Vlad's 
miscalculation  they  had  missed  the  fair,  and  now 
they  were  missing  the  great  fair  at  Constanza  on 
the  Black  Sea.  All  because  he  had  become  in- 
fatuated with  a  horse. 

Of  course,  they  knew  what  such  passion  meant. 
Each  one  of  them  had  at  some  time  or  other  been 
attached  to  some  beautiful  animal,  and  each  one's 
heart  had  been  broken.  Some  of  the  horses  had 
died,  others  became  crippled  and  were  shot  in 
mercy,  and  still  others  were  sold  at  the  orders  of 
Vlad  when  some  big  price  was  offered.  For 
Stica,  the  stalKon  he  had  loved  so  much,  Vlad  had 
given  away  every  pet  horse  and  almost  all  the 
gold  of  the  tribe;  even  to  the  salbas,  necklaces, 
the  women  had  worn. 


74  VLAD'S  SON 

They  could  never  forget  or  forgive  that.  He 
was  a  passionate  man,  Vlad  was.  His  passions 
were  his  strength.  And  he  broke  every  other 
man's  passion  for  women  or  horses  as  soon  as  it 
was  manifested,  lest  one  of  them  grow  strong 
with  the  rising  greed  and  dare  oppose  his  rule 
when  occasion  offered. 

Only  the  ruler  had  a  right  to  strong  passions. 
Such  was  his  dictum.  And  now  a  slip  of  a  girl 
was  opposing  him!  He  knew,  and  his  people 
knew,  that  Tudor  did  not  count.  And  if  the  will 
of  a  girl  were  stronger  than  his  passion,  than  his 
cunning,  he  was  no  longer  fit  to  rule. 

All  this  was  now  muttered  of  and  spoken  about 
under  their  breaths.  It  was  time  he  was  called 
to  account.  He  was  a  great  chief  and  all  that, 
but  every  once  in  a  while  all  they  had  saved  in 
years  was  given  away  in  a  day  to  satisfy  one  of 
his  whims. 

And  he  broke  every  one's  heart.  Nothing 
was  sacred  before  the  fire  of  his  passion.  The 
gypsies  grumbled,  but  no  one  dared  say  a  word 
before  the  face  of  the  chief. 

Vlad  grew  thinner  every  day.  He  had  loved 
women  and  had  grieved  when  he  lost  them.  He 
had  loved  horses  and  had  been  ready  to  pay  the 
price  of  fools,  but  never  yet  had  there  been  a 
woman  or  an  animal  that  he  could  not  get  when 
he  wanted.  There  was  that  Circassian  slave-girl 
he  had  stolen  from  the  harem  of  a  pasha.  She 


VLAD'S  SON  75 

was  Radu's  mother.  Much  chance  the  pasha  had 
with  all  his  eunuchs  once  Vlad  had  set  his  eye 
upon  the  girl !  And  before  that  he  had  stolen  the 
daughter  of  a  Boyar  and  made  her  his  wife. 

And  from  that  Russian  general  in  Bessarabia, 
whose  stables  were  guarded  by  armed  soldiers 
day  and  night,  he  had  stolen  the  best  horse.  The 
general  called  him  into  his  room  afterward  and 
gave  him  hundreds  of  gold-pieces.  Vlad  re- 
called how  the  officer's  hands  shook  as  he  begged. 

"It  was  the  horse  which  the  Czar  has  mounted, 
the  horse  which  the  Czar  has  mounted!  I  shall 
have  to  commit  suicide  if  it  is  lost." 

He  returned  the  horse  and  ever  since  the  gen- 
eral had  been  his  best  friend.  And  now  whatever 
plan  he  laid  was  thwarted  by  Anica,  one  of  his 
own  people  on  her  mother's  side. 

But  never  had  he  loved  a  horse  so  much  as  he 
loved  that  little  filly,  and  never  before  had  his 
reputation  or  his  rule  been  at  stake.  It  was  a 
fatal  day  on  which  he  had  seen  Mara.  The  whole 
affair  had  gone  too  far.  He  could  never  rule  his 
people  if  he  were  to  give  it  up.  Radu  and  some 
others  were  already  defying  his  authority. 

And  the  peasants  made  fun  of  him!  On  the 
Sunday  after  the  first  snowfall  of  the  year  a 
young  peasant' came  up  to  him  on  an  old  nag  and 
in  mock  seriousness  offered  the  nag  for  sale  to 
the  gypsy. 

"You  see,  Vlad,  I  have  decided  that  as  a  great 


76  VLAD'S  SON 

chief  you  are  entitled  to  own  the  best  horse  in 
the  country." 

He  had  become  the  joke  of  the  village.  Vlad 
could  see  that  in  the  eyes  of  the  innkeeper  and 
his  daughter.  Miron,  the  mayor,  smiled  every 
time  he  saw  him.  Only  some  of  the  oldest  peas- 
ants were  not  convinced  of  the  gypsy's  defeat. 
The  priest  said  it  every  evening  at  the  inn,  as  he 
drank  his  last  glass  before  retiring. 

"Vlad  will  get  the  horse.  The  young  pups 
will  soon  grow  lax.  He  bides  his  time.  You  will 
see,  Vlad  will  get  the  horse." 

But  the  young  peasants  did  not  intend  to  grow 
lax.  The  old  barn  was  fitted  out  with  tables, 
benches,  barrels  and  pitchers,  and  soon  became 
the  meeting-place  of  the  boys  and  girls  of  the 
village.  Anica  was  there  every  night  and  her 
laughter  could  be  heard  above  the  din  and  noise. 

Tudor  was  the  host.  His  little  mustache  was 
waxed  now  every  morning  until  its  points  were 
like  needles,  just  to  show  his  pride  and  insolence. 
To  taunt  Vlad  he  rode  his  horse  up  to  the  gypsy's 
tent  one  Sunday. 

"How  do  you  like  my  little  filly,  Vlad?  She 
is  not  bad  to  look  at,  ha?" 

On  the  fourth  Sunday  after  the  fair  the  priest 
announced  the  wedding  of  Tudor  and  Anica. 

Radu  managed  to  see  the  girl  alone.  He 
begged  her  to  marry  him  instead.  How  could 
she  throw  him  over  like  that? 


VLAD'S  SON  77 

But  Anica  sneered : 

"Marry  you?  You!  And  have  your  father 
order  you,  'Return  to  your  tent/  when  a  man  in- 
sults you!  I  marry  a  man."  A  man  who  is  his 
own  master.  A  man  who  refuses  handfuls  of 
gold  for  a  horse,  when  I  love  the  horse,  and  who 
knows  how  to  guard  the  horse  even  against  Vlad. 
That's  the  man  I  marry.  Nobody  will  ever 
speak  about  him  as  the  'mayor's  son.'  You  could 
not  keep  the  horse  against  your  father's  orders. 
You  could  not  keep  me  against  his  orders. 
You  are  afraid  of  him.  You  would  not  dare  to 
do  anything  without  his  permission.  How  can  a 
woman  love,  marry  you?  How  could  she?" 

She  said  this  and  many  other  things,  even  if 
her  heart  were  not  as  set  as  her  tongue  was  cut- 
ting. 

Radu  was  handsomer  and  stronger  than  Tu- 
dor. There  were  things  about  him  she  liked.  Her 
blood  echoed  to  his.  But  she  hated  his  slavish 
submission  to  Vlad.  Why  did  he  not  act  like  a 
man?  She  had  heard  of  at  least  one  occasion 
when  Vlad  took  to  his  tent  the  bride  of  another 
man  on  the  wedding  day,  just  to  assert  his  rule. 

The  young  gypsy  cried.  He  showed  her  the 
tree  near  which  he  had  first  kissed  her.  He  re- 
minded her  how  she  had  sworn  love  to  him  and 
how  she  had  taken  him  away  from  Maria,  the 
blacksmith's  daughter.  But  she  would  not  hear 
of  it. 


78  VLAD'S  SON 

No,  she  was  going  to  marry  a  man  who  was 
called  by  his  own  name  and  not  after  his  father. 
A  man  who  could  keep  a  horse  she  loved,  who 
could  refuse  handf uls  of  gold. 

"Handfuls  of  gold,  handf  uls  of  gold,"  she  re- 
peated. 

A  man  who  dared,  who  was  hrave  and  cun- 
ning, who  could  guard  what  he  had,  what  she 
loved. 

The  conversation  between  the  two  had  taken 
place  on  a  Wednesday  evening.  The  wedding 
between  Anica  and  Tudor  was  to  take  place  on 
the  following  Sunday.  The  khangiu.,  the  inn- 
keeper, engaged  the  best  musicians.  It  was  to 
be  one  of  the  most  lavish  wedding  feasts.  From 
Sunday  to  Sunday.  The  whole  khan  was  deco* 
rated  with  colored  papers  and  holly  and  papei 
lanterns  of  all  kinds.  In  the  kitchen  a  dozen 
women  prepared  viands  and  spicy  food  for  the 
men. 

It  was  to  be  such  a  feast  as  the  village  had 
never  seen.  No  limit  to  the  quantity  of  wine 
and  brandy.  Wedding  presents  for  the  couple 
were  piled  up  against  two  walls.  On  one  wall, 
what  the  women  had  given — the  best  of  their 
looms,  rolls  of  homespun  linen  and  coarse  silk, 
borangick,  that  had  been  blanched  for  months  in 
the  sun.  Mats,  rugs,  embroidered  towels  and 
folds  upon  folds  of  narrow  belts  of  silk,  betele, 


VLAD'S  SON  79 

that  hold  together  the  two  halves  of  the  peasant 
women's  skirts. 

And  leaning  against  the  other  wall,  visible  to 
all,  were  the  presents  of  the  men,  each  piece  sep- 
arate— pistols  of  all  makes,  knives  with  silver  and 
ivory  hilts,  guns,  long  Turkish  swords,  yata- 
ghans, fur  coats,  fur  hats,  boots,  pipes,  cartridge- 
belts.  Oh,  they  were  not  niggardly,  the  men  of 
Cerna  Voda,  and  God  had  been  good  to  them 
that  year ! 

And  just  after  the  public  exhibit  of  it  all,  and 
as  the  last  few  benches  were  placed,  early  in  the 
morning  on  Sunday,  Tudor  fell  headlong  at  the 
door  of  the  inn,  pale  and  shaking. 

He  had  just  enough  strength  left  to  blurt  out, 
"The  horse,  the  horse " 

"The  horse  what?"  yelled  Anica,  as  she  shook 
his  limp  arm. 

"The  horse — the  horse — "  the  boy  tried  to  ex- 
plain. 

"Tell  me  what  has  happened — is  she  killed? 
Did  she  die?  What?  Tell  me,"  Anica  begged, 
between  sobs  of  anger.  "Tell  me,  Tudor,  tell 
me,  tell  me!" 

But  Tudor  was  becoming  incoherent  in  his 
speech.  He  only  repeated:  "The  horse — the 
horse." 

Leaving  Tudor  prostrated  on  the  floor,  Anica 
darted  away  to  the  stable  of  the  filly.  It  was 
empty. 


80  VLAD'S  SON 

In  a  few  minutes  the  inn  was  beleaguered.  The 
priest  passed  by  on  his  way  to  church.  After  he 
had  heard,  he  went  no  farther.  He  knew  nobody 
would  come  to  church.  The  excitement  was  too 
intense.  The  horse  had  disappeared  from  the 
stable.  How?  When?  No  one  knew.  The 
young  men  who  had  been  in  charge  of  the  night 
watch  had  ridden  away  to  find  the  horse,  vowing 
they  would  never  return  without  Mara. 

When  the  excitement  was  at  its  highest,  Vlad 
came  rushing  to  the  inn.  The  older  peasants 
gave  him  a  rousing  welcome.  The  younger  ones 
looked  to  him  with  a  mixture  of  awe  and  con- 
tempt. A  supernatural  being,  Vlad,  the  great 
chief.  A  sorcerer! 

"Vlad  is  still  Vlad,"  said  the  priest.  "You 
thought  you  knew  better,  hem?" 

Jonica  slapped  the  gypsy  chief  on  his  broad 
shoulders. 

"Well,  well,  it  was  we  against  them/'  he  said, 
showing  the  older  men  on  one  side  and  the  young 
men  on  the  other. 

"But  what  does  it  all  mean?"  asked  Vlad. 

"It's  about  the  horse,  you  know,"  said  Marin, 
the  innkeeper,  clinking  glasses  and  laughing  his 
broadest. 

"What  has  happened  to  the  horse?"  the  gypsy 
yelled  with  all  the  strength  of  his  lungs. 

"Come,  on,  come,  come,  we  are  good  sports," 
said  several  peasants,  as  they  dragged  the  gypsy 


VLAD'S  SON  81 

toward   the    counter.      "The    best   wine   here, 
Marin." 

Vlad  tore  himself  away  with  one  jerk  and 
rushed  to  the  dejected  Tudor. 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  horse,  you  young 
good-for-nothing?" 

"Stolen,  stolen,  stolen,"  and  he  spat  in  disgust. 

The  older  peasants  laughed  at  the  comedy,  and 
the  priest  forgot  all  dignity  and  swung  his  hat 
and  giggled 

"Look  at  Vlad;  look  at  him!" 

In  a  moment  there  was  pandemonium  in  the 
inn.  Anica,  on  coming  back  from  the  stable, 
threw  herself  at  the  chief's  feet  and  begged  him 
to  return  to  her  the  horse. 

"It  is  my  horse,"  she  cried. 

He  looked  hard  at  her. 

She  screamed  that  it  was  because  of  Mara  that 
she  had  agreed  to  marry  Tudor.  It  was  her 
horse.  Her  horse. 

Vlad  swore  that  he  knew  nothing  about  it. 
His  face  twitched  and  changed  colors  until  it 
turned  a  sickly  green,  as  if  it  were  bruised  from 
the  inside.  He  threw  himself  on  the  bench  near 
the  crying  Tudor  and  he,  too,  sobbed. 

They  did  not  believe  him.  Jonica  and  thf 
priest,  his  stanchest  admirers,  least  of  all.  Th*, 
mayor  came  in  and  laughed  as  he  shook  the  limp 
hands  of  the  chief. 

"Good  work!    I  told  you,  Tudor,  that  soonei 


82  VLAD'S  SON 

or  later  he  would  get  the  filly." 

"But  I  did  not,  Miron.    I  swear  I  did  not." 

They  laughed.  Ah,  Vlad  was  having  some 
fun! 

Soon  all  the  gypsies  were  in  the  inn. 

They  laughed  and  made  much  noise. 

"Drinks  here.     Vlad  is  still  Vlad." 

What  did  they  think  of  him,  hein?  Watch  a 
horse  when  he  wanted  it!  There  was  no  better 
man  in  the  country,  in  the  world. 

Vlad  was  sick  of  denying  that  he  knew  any- 
thing about  the  horse.  Anica  swore  that  the 
wedding  was  called  off;  that  she  would  never 
marry  a  man  who  could  not  watch  a  horse. 

During  one  of  her  passionate  outbursts  Radu 
entered  the  inn.  His  twinkling  eye  met  the  gaze 
of  the  innkeeper's  daughter  and  she  trembled 
from  head  to  foot  when  he  left  the  inn  as  unob- 
served as  he  had  entered  it.  Vlad  saw  his  son 
leave  and  prepared  to  leave  also. 

"Listen  here,"  said  the  mayor.  "Return  the 
horse.  We  shall  settle  that  later." 

"I  know  nothing  about  the  horse,"  answered 
Vlad,  and  fell  limply  on  a  chair.  "I  wish  to  God 
I  did." 

All  eyes  were  turned  on  the  two  men.  The 
mayor  was  not  fair.  One  should  not  speak  to 
Vlad  in  that  way.  One  could  read  in  their  eyes 
that  such  was  the  thought  in  the  heart  of  the  peas- 


VLAD'S  SON  83 

ants.  No.  One  should  not  speak  that  way  to 
Vlad. 

"I  will  put  you  in  chains,  Vlad.  The  joke  has 
gone  too  far.  Show  us  where  you  have  hidden 
the  horse,"  and  the  mayor  tried  to  assert  his  au- 
thority. 

"I  know  nothing  about  the  horse,"  assured 
Vlad,  and  his  voice,  broken  and  feeble,  trem- 
bled. 

"It's  time  for  the  wedding,"  broke  in  the  priest 
in  a  conciliatory  tone,  as  he  placed  himself  be- 
tween the  two  men.  "We  shall  speak  about 
horses  later." 

Tudor  got  up  from  his  chair. 

"There  will  be  no  wedding."  Anica  stamped 
her  foot  and  beat  the  table  with  her  hands.  "The 
man  I  marry  must  be  a  man." 

She  had  hardly  finished  the  last  word  when 
Radu,  mounted  on  the  stolen  filly,  rode  to  the 
door  of  the  inn. 

"Mayor,"  he  yelled,  "leave  the  poor  old  man 
in  peace.  It  is  I  who  took  the  horse,"  and  before 
any  one  could  say  a  word  Anica  had  jumped  up 
behind  him  on  the  chestnut  filly. 

"Eat  the  wedding  feast  by  yourselves.  We 
will  get  married  in  the  church  of  the  next  vil- 
lage." 

Vlad  left  the  inn,  staggering  on  his  feet  like 
a  drunkard. 

"So  he  did  it!   He,  he,  he!" 


84  VLAD'S  SON 

Radu  now  had  found  strength  and  cunning  in 
his  passion.  It  was  all  over,  all  over! 

When  Radu  returned  to  Cerna  Voda  the  fol- 
lowing day,  his  father  had  disappeared.  He, 
Vlad,  refused  to  be  known  merely  as  Radu's 
father. 

And  the  people  made  merry,  sang,  drank  and 
danced  for  seven  days  and  seven  nights.  Yea, 
they  sang  and  danced  and  drank  for  seven  days 
and  seven  nights! 


YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE 

IT  was  during  the  fast  of  the  Ramazan  that 
Kurguz  Mehmet,  the  chief  of  the  Tartar  tribe, 
lost  his  beloved  wife,  Sahande.  For  that  reason 
the  B  air  am  feast,  celebrated  after  the  fasts  were 
over,  was  the  saddest  one  in  his  life. 

Kurguz  Mehmet  was  the  last  one  of  a  long 
line  of  chiefs.  Like  his  forefathers  he  was  born 
in  the  marshland  that  forms  an  open  square  be- 
tween the  Danube  and  the  Black  Sea,  and  like  his 
father  he  was  the  undisputed  lord  of  his  tribe, 
minding  very  little  the  fact  that  the  Dobrudja, 
the  territory  he  was  living  in,  had  passed  from 
the  dominion  of  Constantinople  into  the  hands  of 
Rumania. 

The  change  of  dominion  hardly  affected  Kur- 
guz and  his  tribe.  No  government  could  inter- 
fere with  the  marshland  Tartars,  for  they  and 
they  alone  knew  the  paths  that  led  in  and  out 
of  the  mossy  pasture-land  where  they  lived  and  on 
which  little  Arabian  horses  roamed  at  will,  to  be 
coralled  every  year  a  week  or  two  before  the 
great  fair  of  Constanza  on  the  Black  Sea. 

Kurguz  Mehmet  had  been  very  much  attached 
to  Sahande.  A  year  after  he  had  married  her  he 

85 


86        YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE 

divorced  his  two  other  wives,  gave  to  their  fathers 
twice  as  many  pieces  of  gold  as  he  had  paid  for 
them,  as  was  provided  in  the  marriage  agree- 
ment, and  remained  to  live  alone  with  the  soft- 
voiced,  curly-headed  daughter  of  the  imman. 

For  twenty  years  they  had  lived  in  perfect 
peace  and  agreement.  He  trusted  her,  confided 
in  her  and  never  doubted  her  during  his  frequent 
absences  when  he  was  trading  horses,  sheep  and 
honey  with  other  tribes  of  his  people  or  with 
the  gypsies  who  camped  occasionally  amongst 
them. 

And  then  suddenly,  in  the  first  days  of  the 
ninth  moon,  during  the  Ramazan,  Sahande  be- 
came ill  with  the  marsh  fevers,  and  two  days  later 
she  departed  to  her  fathers  in  Allah.  Even  as  he 
and  the  old  Haggi  he  had  brought  to  cure  her 
looked  on,  she  stretched  her  limbs,  opened  her 
eyes  wide,  closed  her  mouth  and  died  as  grace- 
fully as  she  had  lived. 

And  because  he  had  loved  Sahande  so  much, 
Kurguz  Mehmet  felt  very  lonely  after  her  death. 
Because  he  thought  of  her  so  much,  longing  to 
hear  again  the  patter  of  small  feet  around  the 
hut,  Kurguz  went  out  in  search  of  a  wife  only 
three  moons  after  Sahande's  death.  Short 
widowhood  proves  that  a  man  has  been  happy 
in  his  married  life  and  has  not  been  wishing  that 
her  death  set  him  free. 

He  put  on  his  best  clothes,  the  largest  blue 


YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE         87 

pantaloons  with  silver  buckles  below  the  knees 
and  the  bournouz  furred  with  the  finest  astra- 
khan, covered  his  head  with  the  tallest  red  fez, 
stocked  his  pockets  with  golden  ducats,  groomed 
his  best  horse  and  was  up  and  about  wife-hunting 
amongst  his  kinsmen  in  the  Dobrudja  marshes. 

Three  moons  had  come  and  gone  and  Kurguz 
had  seen  many  women  without  finding  the  one  he 
desired ;  but  at  the  beginning  of  the  fourth  moon, 
when  he  had  already  bethought  himself  of  return- 
ing home,  he  saw  Yahde,  the  daughter  of  Osman 
Ali,  he  whose  forefathers  had  once  been  Khans, 
and  he  decided  to  buy  her  as  a  wife. 

Osman  Ali  received  him  with  great  honors, 
but  when  Kurguz  stated  his  demand,  the  white- 
haired  man  did  not  even  want  to  hear  of  parting 
with  his  daughter,  Yahde.  She  was  the  crown  of 
his  life,  she  was  his  jewel,  she  was  the  joy  of  his 
old  heart  and  many  other  things  which  he  enu- 
merated. 

Kurguz  stroked  his  black  hair  and  closed  his 
small  eyes  until  they  were  no  more  than  narrow 
slits  under  a  protruding  forehead  and  asked: 

"How  many  ducats  for  the  crown  of  your  life, 
how  many  for  the  jewel,  how  many  for  the  joy 
of  your  heart?  Speak,  Osman,  for  I  have  seen 
Yahde  but  once  and  I  want  her  for  a  wife.  The 
best  has  its  price.  And  on  top  of  all  the  ducats 
I  shall  bring  you  next  year  six  of  the  best  colts 
of  my  pasture,  which  you  know  that  my  worthy 


88        YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE 

forefathers  have  stocked  with  the  finest  blood 
that  ever  flowed  in  horseflesh." 

For  seven  days  and  seven  nights  the  two  men 
dickered,  but  on  the  morning  of  the  eighth  day 
Osman  called  his  daughter  and  told  her  that  she 
was  to  become  Kurguz's  wife  and,  showing  her  all 
the  gold  her  future  husband  had  paid  to  get  her, 
he  said: 

"You  may  rightly  be  proud,  Yahde,  for  in  all 
the  history  of  the  Dobrudja  no  more  gold  was 
ever  paid  for  a  wife." 

But  Yahde  threw  back  her  head  in  scorn  and 
said: 

"I  don't  want  to  be  his  wife.  He  is  as  old  ^s 
my  father  would  be  were  I  his  first-born  instead 
of  the  last  of  his  seed.  Sander  Suliman,  who  is 
young  and  beautiful,  would  pay  just  as  many 
ducats  for  me  and  more  besides,  if  I  but  said  a 
word." 

"Then  Sander  Suliman  is  too  late,"  answered 
Osman.  "You  are  the  wife  of  Kurguz.  He  has 
paid  for  you.  And  because  you  speak  as  no 
kadina  ever  spoke  to  her  father  in  presence  of 
another  man,  you  will  depart  with  your  husband 
ere  the  sun  sets.  The  imman  will  perform  the 
wedding  ceremony  at  his  house." 

Yahde  made  for  the  door  but  was  caught  by 
the  strong  arm  of  Kurguz,  who  threw  her  on  a 
divan  and  with  the  aid  of  her  father  tied  her 
hands  and  feet.  The  two  men  watched  over  her, 


89 

smoking  their  narghiles.,  until  the  sun  had  set; 
then  her  father  handed  her  over  to  Kurguz,  who 
had  mounted  his  horse.  He  sat  the  girl  cross- 
wise in  front  of  him,  encircled  her  with  his  left 
arm  and  the  ride  homeward  began. 

The  long  twilight  of  a  hot  summer  evening  had 
merged  into  night  when  Kurguz  stopped  to  water 
his  horse  and  moisten  his  own  parched  throat  in 
a  hrook  leisurely  flowing  on  the  side  of  the  road. 
He  put  Yahde  down  on  the  wet  moss  and  spoke 
to  her: 

"Yahde,  my  wife,  must  be  thirsty." 

The  little  Tartar  girl  looked  at  the  man,  re- 
proaching him. 

"You  know  that  I  have  drunk  nothing  but  my 
own  tears  since  I  first  heard  your  voice." 

Kurguz  smiled  as  he  brought  water  in  his 
cupped  palms.  After  she  had  emptied  them 
twice,  he  untied  her  hands  and  allowed  her  to  un- 
tie her  feet.  He  repressed  a  wild  desire  to  kiss 
the  carmined  fingers  and  the  shapely  little  toes 
of  her  feet.  For  a  long  time  the  two  looked  at 
each  other  in  silence.  Then  Yahde  spoke: 

"Why  have  you  chosen  me  of  all  the  girls  you 
have  seen?"  „ 

"Because  you  alone  pleased  me,"  he  answered. 

"You  have  paid  six  hundred  ducats  for  a 
scratching,  gnawing  cat.  You  have  made  a  bad 
bargain.  Sell  me  to  Sander  Suliman.  He  will 


90        YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE 

give  twice  as  much  money  as  you  have  paid  for 
me.  Turn  a  bad  bargain  into  a  good  one.  You 
still  have  your  chance.  I  will  be  like  a  she-wolf 
to  you." 

"That  is  good  to  hear,"  Kurguz  answered,  and 
his  eyes  glittered  in  the  dark.  "That  is  good  to 
hear.  For  twenty  years  I  have  lived  in  one  room 
with  one  that  was  a  lamb.  It  will  be  well  to  have 
a  she- wolf  for  a  change." 

They  faced  each  other  as  Kurguz  cut  slices  of 
bread  that  he  smeared  with  honey.  She  bit  into  a 
piece  once  or  twice  with  her  small,  sharp  white 
teeth;  then  she  put  it  away  and  spoke  again  to 
the  man  before  her : 

"I  shall  eat  your  bread  and  honey  but  never 
will  I  be  your  wife,  Kurguz  Mehmet.  With  six 
hundred  ducats  you  could  have  bought  yourself 
six  wives,  each  one  more  beautiful  than  I  am  and 
each  one  willing  to  be  your  wife.  You  are  not  so 
old  as  to  pay  so  much  gold  for  a  wife,  Kurguz 
Mehmet. 

"You  shall  never  have  peace  while  I  am 
around.  You  have  made  a  very  bad  bargain. 
My  father,  who  is  a  better  trader  than  you  are, 
has  tricked  you.  He  knows  that  you  will  soon 
bring  me  back  to  him  and  then  he  will  get  more 
gold  for  me  from  Sander  Suliman." 

Then  Kurguz  said: 

"For  twenty  years  I  have  had  peace  in  my 
home  and  Allah  has  thought  it  right  to  let  me 


YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE        91 

have  a  wife  who  will  keep  me  awake  with  her 
scolding.  But  I  must  tell  you  that  Kurguz  Meh- 
met  is  known  as  the  'Tamer  of  Wild  Horses.'  I 
have  tamed  the  wildest  horse  in  the  Dobrudja. 
And  after  I  have  finished  with  him  he  has  been 
as  gentle  as  a  lamb,  eating  from  my  hand  and 
happy  when  I  looked  at  him.  And  your  father 
will  wait  longer  than  Allah  lets  him  live  if  he  in- 
tends waiting  until  I  return  you  to  him.  Of  San- 
der Suliman  I  know  nothing  and  it  is  forbidden 
to  speak  ill  of  any  man  one  has  not  seen  with  his 
own  eyes." 

Thus  ended  the  first  talk  between  bride  and 
groom.  Kurguz  covered  her  with  his  bournouz 
as  she  folded  her  arms  under  her  head  and  closed 
her  tired  eyes.  Kurguz  watched  over  her  and  the 
rest  of  the  night  he  admired  her  beautiful  limbs 
and  proud  head;  he  thought  his  hut  would  be 
much  enlivened  by  the  girl's  presence. 

The  one  thing  he  had  always  regretted  about 
Sahande  was  her  failure  to  give  him  issue.  He 
hoped  it  would  be  different  with  Yahde  and  that 
his  old  days  would  see  him  with  one  or  more  sons 
at  his  side. 

At  the  first  awakening  of  the  day  Kurguz 
touched  the  arm  of  the  sleeping  girl  and  bade  her 
get  ready  for  the  ride. 

"Call  your  horse,"  she  answered,  as  she  knotted 
her  loose  hair. 

At  midday  Kurguz  had  reached  his  home. 


92        YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE 

As  Yahde  had  not  yet  been  given  away  by  the 
imman,  she  wore  no  veil  and  the  men  and  women 
of  Kurguz  Mehmet's  tribe  came  to  the  chief's 
hut  to  look  at  her.  Kurguz  had  already  related 
how  he  had  paid  six  hundred  ducats  in  gold  for 
her,  and  as  he  was  the  best  trader  of  the  tribe  they 
were  sure  to  behold  the  most  beautiful  woman 
in  God's  creation. 

They  were  rather  taken  aback  to  find  her  a 
sulking  dust-covered  little  creature  who  turned 
her  back  to  them.  As  was  the  custom,  Kurguz's 
mother  approached  the  girl  to  bid  her  welcome 
and  to  feel  the  hardness  of  her  arm  and  the  shape 
of  her  forehead. 

But  Yahde,  who  had  been  sitting  listlessly,  full 
of  poisonous  scorn,  sprang  to  her  feet  at  the  old 
woman's  touch  and  between  her  closed  teeth 
said: 

"Keep  away  from  me.  I  am  a  daughter  of  Os- 
man  Ali  and  my  forefathers  have  been  Khans 
who  lorded  over  all  the  Tartars  in  Allah's  whole 
world  and  not  horse-thieves ;  and  on  my  mother's 
side,  too,  there  have  been  Khans  and  not  pack- 
horses.  I  am  still  Osman  Ali's  daughter  and  I 
shall  never  be  Kurguz  Mehmet's  wife.  I  will  be 
killed  or  die  as  Ali's  daughter." 

The  women  closed  their  ears  to  shut  out  the 
insults  and  the  men  looked  at  Kurguz  Mehmet, 
not  knowing  what  to  do  or  say. 

"She  stands  me  six  hundred  ducats,  effendis, 


YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE         93 

six  hundred  ducats  in  gold.  And  she  is  spirited 
like  all  thoroughbreds — but  we  like  them  that 
way,  don't  we,  men?  It  gives  us  pride  to  be  mas- 
ters of  such  as  she." 

And  as  he  laughed  and  joked  the  other  men 
did  likewise,  as  they  were  led  to  the  door  of  the 
chief. 

Alone  with  Yahde,  Kurguz  narrowed  his  bead- 
like  eyes  and  sprang  at  her.  But  she  had  been 
expecting  that.  She  stepped  aside  and  he  saw  in 
her  hand  a  dagger  with  a  handle  of  mother-of- 
pearl. 

"You  have  made  a  bad  bargain,  Kurguz  Meh- 
met.  You  will  never  kiss  me,  never  come  near 
me,  never  have  me,  never,  Kurguz." 

The  Tartar  chief  stroked  his  hair  and  he 
showed  his  teeth  and  grinned. 

"The  imman  will  come  to-day  to  marry  us. 
You  had  better  get  ready  a  veil  from  yonder 
white  silk." 

"That  I  will  do,  Kurguz;  for  I  hate  the  shadow 
of  your  people's  eyes  on  my  face.  Your  women 
are  ugly,  your  men  are  jackals  and  you  I  hate." 

Kurguz  left  her  alone  and  went  out  to  his 
people.  He  found  the  men  squatting  on  the 
grass,  talking  one  to  another. 

Old  Ketidge  spoke  up: 

"Of  course,  Kurguz  Mehmet,  you  are  right  in 
whatever  you  do.  And  it  is  well  for  the  mem- 
ory of  Sahande  that  you  sought  to  marry  so 


94        YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE 

soon  after  her  death.  It  is  proof  that  she  loved 
you  and  made  you  happy  and  therefore  you  de- 
sire a  woman  to  take  her  place  near  you.  But  I, 
who  am  much  older  than  you  are,  who  have 
known  the  father  of  your  father,  know  how  un- 
tamed are  the  women  of  Osman  Ali's  house,  and 
I  fear  for  your  peace,  my  son." 

But  Kurguz  laughed  as  he  squatted  near  the 
old  man. 

"Kurguz  Mehmet  has  never  yet  made  a  bad 
bargain  and  she  stands  me  six  hundred  ducats. 
Let  the  youngest  of  us  go  call  the  imman  and 
let  the  women  prepare  the  wedding  feast." 

The  Tartars  jumped  to  their  feet  and  ran  to 
their  tents  and  huts,  shouting: 

"Kurguz  Mehmet's  wedding  day!  He  weds 
the  fairest  daughter  of  the  land.  Has  paid  her 
weight  in  gold.  Praise  be  to  Allah." 

The  biggest  kettle  was  hung  on  an  iron  tri- 
angle, a  fire  was  built  underneath  and  the  young- 
est of  the  lambs  were  killed,  skinned  and  the 
flesh — still  warm — was  thrown  into  the  boiling 
water  for  the  common  feast. 

To  tend  to  the  flesh-pot  was  the  work  of  the 
men.  Around  a  smaller  kettle  the  women  pre- 
pared the  rice  for  the  pilaff,  talking  and  singing 
all  the  time,  improvising  songs  about  Yahde  and 
Kurguz  as  they  went  along. 

After  the  kettle  was  full  with  meat,  old  Ke- 
tidge  began  to  sing  the  song  of  the  Kurguz  tribe. 


YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE         95 

At  the  end  of  each  quatrain  all  the  men  joined  in 
the  chorus: 

"Eagles  proud  and  strong, 
Each  one  of  them. 
Praise  be  to  Allah, 
Praise  be  to  Allah." 

And  as  the  odor  of  the  simmering  food  pene- 
trated their  nostrils,  the  men  became  intoxicated 
with  joy  and  began  to  dance.  At  first  their  feet 
moved  slowly  around  the  fire  but  gradually  the 
dance  became  faster  and  faster  while  the  women 
clapped  their  hands  and  old  Ketidge  continued 
his  song.  At  the  end  of  each  quatrain  the  dancers 
bowed  their  heads  and  bent  their  knees  as  they 
shouted : 

"Eagles  proud  and  strong, 
Each  one  of  them. 
Praise  be  to  Allah. 
Praise  be  to  Allah." 

When  Ketidge  had  finished  his  song,  his  voice 
was  no  louder  than  a  whisper  and  even  the 
youngest  men  were  tired  and  sat  down  on  the 
grass. 

Then  Kurguz  threw  his  fez  in  the  air,  tight- 
ened his  belt,  bared  his  feet  and  began  to  dance 
and  sing  his  own  Odyssey  in  search  of  a  wife. 
He  related  how  he  despaired  of  ever  finding  one 
until  Yahde  came  before  his  eyes.  He  had 
&ought  himself  an  old  man  until  he  had  seen 


96        YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE 

her.  And  of  a  sudden  youth  had  come  back  to 
him. 

Then  he  told  about  his  dickerings  with  Osman 
Ali.  How  the  old  man  had  held  out  for  a  thou- 
sand ducats  in  gold  on  the  first  day  and  how  he, 
Kurguz,  had  offered  to  pay  him  a  thousand 
ducats  if  he  could  show  him  an  equal  sum  in  his 
possession: 

"For  we  are  the  richest  tribe  and  it  is  known 
that  there  are  not  two  thousand  ducats  in  gold 
in  existence." 

And  then  he  told  them  how  they  tied  her  hands 
and  feet  and  how  he  rode  with  her.  As  he  related 
it,  the  ride  homeward  took  on  tremendous  pro- 
portions, as  if  its  duration  had  been  twenty  years 
and  not  as  many  hours.  And  now  he  was  with 
them,  home  again,  with  his  men  and  horses. 
Praise  be  to  Allah,  the  Only  One,  and  to  Moham- 
med, who  is  his  only  prophet. 

For  two  hours  he  danced  and  sang.  The  men 
listened  to  his  every  word,  never  interrupting 
him  with  a  gesture  or  a  sound.  The  women  had 
retired  a  little  farther  lest  the  men  speak  things 
only  for  the  ears  of  men.  The  youngsters  had 
waited  patiently  in  the  stables  until  the  last  of 
Kurguz's  song;  then  they  appeared  astride  their 
horses,  formed  two  circles,  and  began  to  ride 
slowly  around  the  seated  men,  each  circle  riding 
in  an  opposite  direction. 


YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE        97 

Slowly  the  pace  was  increased  while  the  riders 
performed  all  sorts  of  tricks:  some  standing  up 
on  the  saddles  while  others  threw  in  the  air 
curved  swords,  yataghans  and  daggers  and 
caught  them  while  their  horses  were  in  full  gal- 
lop. 

After  this  the  riders  surrounded  Kurguz's  tent 
and,  singing  the  bridal  song,  they  called  upon 
Yahde  to  come  out  and  show  her  face  before  the 
imman  covered  it  with  the  veil: 

"Come,  daughter  of  Osman,  and  show  your  face,  which 
makes  the  moon  envious. 

Come,  daughter  of  Osman,  and  laugh  that  we  may  see 
your  teeth,  which  are  as  beautiful  as  two  rows  of  pearls. 

Come,  Yahde,  daughter  of  Osman  Ali,  and  show  us  your 
eyes,  which  shame  the  stars. 

Come,  daughter  of  Osman." 

For  a  long  time  they  sang  as  they  rode  around 
and  around.  Then  Yahde  came  out.  The  young 
men  shouted  their  greetings  and  continued  to 
ride,  excelling  themselves  in  prowess  as  they 
passed  in  front  of  her. 

But  nothing  astonished  her.  A  scornful  smile 
played  over  her  lips  as  the  most  daring  feats  were 
performed.  And  when  the  sun  had  set  and  the 
imman  had  arrived,  she  hissed  to  the  young  men 
as  she  posed  herself  at  the  door  of  the  hut : 

"Was  that  your  best?  Old  women  of  my  peo- 
ple can  do  better  than  that.  I  see  now  why  Kur- 
guz  Mehmet  bought  me  for  his  wife.  Your  women 


98        YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE 

are  ugly  and  even  your  young  men  are  old  hens 
and  he  wants  to  improve  the  blood  of  his  tribe. 
But  he  shall  not.  I  swear  it  shall  be  against 
my  will  and  I  shall  die  and  not  give  him  issue 
that  his  name  may  live  with  his  people." 

The  young  Tartars  were  outraged.  They 
would  have  forgotten  themselves  and  rent  her  to 
pieces  but  Kurguz  Mehmet  was  behind  the  girl 
and  shouted  to  them: 

"She  is  like  an  unbroken  colt,  sons  of  my 
people.  And  what  is  the  name  by  which  I  am 
known?" 

"The  tamer  of  wild  horses,"  they  shouted,  as 
Yahde  entered  her  hut,  "the  tamer  of  wild 
horses,"  and  laughingly  they  returned  galloping 
to  the  stables. 

The  old  imman,  accompanied  by  the  chiacnish 
who  served  as  his  scribe  and  the  young  Tartar 
who  had  gone  to  call  him,  arrived  on  horseback 
just  as  the  sun  was  setting. 

After  many  of  the  older  men  had  washed  his 
feet  and  poured  water  from  earthen  gourds  on 
his  palms,  that  he  might  cool  his  face  and  clean 
his  eyes,  the  imman,  followed  by  most  of  the  men, 
after  leaving  his  paputch  (shoes)  outside  the 
door,  entered  the  bridal  chamber.  It  was  the 
same  room  Sahande  had  occupied  and  between 
midday  and  sunset  the  women  had  put  the  room 
in  order. 

They  had  piled  the  skins  and  furs  high  and  had 


YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE         99 

covered  the  walls  with  colored  silks  and  with 
green  boughs  they  had  cut  from  the  trees.  On 
narrow  shelves  over  the  doors  and  windows  burn- 
ing oil-wicks  floated  in  colored  glasses.  In  the 
middle  of  the  room  was  the  beautiful  wedding 
rug  of  the  tribe. 

Kurguz,  barefooted,  in  a  white  dolman  and  a 
green  turban  around  his  blood-red  fez,  was  al- 
ready there.  His  strong  body  looked  even 
stronger  in  his  wedding  clothes.  The  imman 
begged  them  all  be  seated  and  then  began  the 
reading  of  the  marriage  contract  from  a  long 
yellow  parchment,  a  blank  form  which  he  filled  in 
with  names  of  the  groom  and  bride  and  fathers 
and  forefathers.  Toward  the  end  of  the  cere- 
mony Yahde  was  ushered  into  the  room,  followed 
and  surrounded  by  all  the  women  of  the  tribe  in 
gayly  colored  pantaloons. 

"May  she  give  him  issue,"  they  sang  and 
shouted.  "May  she  give  him  issue." 

Hers  was  the  only  female  face  that  was  un- 
covered. A  white  veil,  pinned  to  her  hair,  was 
hanging  back  of  her  head.  The  imman  took  her 
hand  and  led  her  to  the  wedding  rug,  as  the 
chiaoush  went  on  reading  the  marriage  cere- 
monial and  conditions  of  divorce. 

"And  how  many  ducats  have  you  paid  to  her 
kin?"  the  scribe  asked. 

"Six  hundred,"  answered  Kurguz  proudly. 

"And  how  much  have  you  agreed  to  pay  to  her 


100   YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE 

father,  Osman  All,  should  your  desire  be  to  re- 
turn her  to  him  to-day,  to-morrow,  after  a  year  or 
ten?"  the  chiaoush  continued  in  a  droning  voice. 

"Six  hundred  times  six  hundred  ducats," 
shouted  Kurguz  defiantly,  as  he  looked  at  Yahde. 

The  imman  looked  at  the  Tartar  in  astonish- 
ment, while  the  droning  scribe  filled  in  the  sum 
mentioned  in  the  blank  space  of  the  parchment. 

"And  now,  know,  woman,"  the  chiaoush 
turned  to  Yahde,  "that  if  you  give  him  no  issue 
after  ten  years,  you  may,  if  so  be  then  your  will, 
return  to  your  father,  free  to  wed  another  man." 

That  ended  the  ceremony  and  Yahde's  veil 
was  thrown  over  her  face  by  the  oldest  woman 
to  hide  it  from  the  sight  of  any  man  but  her 
husband. 

Kurguz  left  the  room  to  celebrate  with  the 
men  and  Yahde  remained  with  the  women. 

The  fire  of  green  birches  crackled,  the  black 
smoke  rose  to  the  starry  heavens  and  the  steam 
from  the  kettles  enveloped  the  squatting  men  as 
they  pulled  pieces  of  meat  from  the  boiling  pot, 
while  behind  them  the  youngsters  killed  more 
lambs  to  go  into  the  kettles. 

The  young  girls  sang  and  danced  and  gave  the 
dark,  naked  little  youngsters  hot  sweetened 
pilaff  and  large  pieces  of  honey  still  in  the  comb. 

A  little  later  in  the  night,  after  the  second 
prayers,  smaller  fires  were  built  and  groups 
gathered  to  listen  to  singers  and  flute-players- 


YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE       101 

who  sang  and  played  sad,  slow  tunes,  which  the 
men  repeated  vocally  without  much  attention  to 
the  key,  each  one  also  changing  the  rhythm  to 
suit  his  mood. 

At  midnight  the  revelry  ceased  abruptly.  At 
the  call  to  midnight  prayers  the  imman  rose, 
bowed,  touched  the  ground  seven  times  with  his 
forehead,  gave  his  benediction  to  the  bowing  men 
and  left  the  feast.  The  satiated  Tartars  rolled 
on  their  backs  to  sleep  in  the  open. 

The  women  went  to  their  quarters.  Kurguz 
left  his  shoes  outside  the  door  to  Yahde's  room. 
Only  a  few  urchins  still  roamed  around  the  kettle 
to  eat  the  left-overs  of  the  feast.  After  a  while 
it  was  as  quiet  as  if  the  night  itself  had  fallen 
asleep. 

Kurguz  found  Yahde  seated  on  a  heap  of 
skins.  She  had  lighted  fresh  tobacco  on  a  nar- 
ghile and  was  inhaling  the  cool  smoke  which  had 
first  passed  through  a  jar  of  cold  rose-water. 
She  put  the  mouthpiece  away  as  Kurguz  entered. 
The  mother-of-pearl-handled  dagger  was  lying 
near  her,  close  to  her  right  hand. 

"You  need  not  fear  me  that  way,  Yahde,  and 
daggers  are  no  weapons  against  men  like  Kur- 
guz Mehmet,''  he  said,  as  he  pointed  to  the  dag- 
ger and  squatted  on  his  knees,  facing  her. 

"I  have  left  my  foot-gear  outside  your  door. 
It  is  not  my  pleasure  to  stop  here  to-night.  But 
I  have  come  to  speak  to  you.  I  have  come  to 


102      YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE 

tell  you  that  you  cannot  insult  my  people  as 
you  did  before  sundown.  I  am  your  husband 
now  and  the  chief  of  the  tribe.  I  have  spoken." 

Yahde  looked  at  him  as  he  faced  her  quietlyf 
although  she  scented  the  tempest  within  him.  His 
powerful  face  betrayed  not  the  slightest  emotion 
as  he  made  ready  to  leave  the  room  after  a  few 
puffs  at  the  narghile. 

"You  have  made  a  bad  bargain,  Kurguz  Meh- 
met.  You  will  lose  your  money.  Sander  Suli- 
man  will  come  and  take  me  away  from  here," 
Yahde  called  after  him. 

"If  I  have  made  a  bad  bargain,  it  is  not  for  my 
wife  to  speak  about  it.  May  Allah  be  merciful 
to  you  in  your  sleep,"  and  Kurguz  left  the  room 
without  another  word. 

In  the  following  days  the  Tartar  chief  paid 
little  attention  to  his  wife.  Yahde  watched  him 
going  and  coming.  She  took  notice  of  the  supreme 
lordship  he  enjoyed  over  his  own  people.  His 
every  word  was  law;  his  gesture,  command. 
His  quiet  dignity  lent  power  to  his  every  word. 

She  noticed  the  economy  of  movement  and  the 
tremendous  energy  he  displayed  in  the  breaking 
in  of  young  colts  and  the  alertness  and  respon- 
siveness of  his  muscles  when  in  action. 

She  expected  him  to  assert  his  rights  as  a  hus- 
band and  never  yet  had  she  been  once  in  his  pres- 
ence without  having  her  dagger  close  at  hand. 

But  Kurguz  was  away  with  his  men  the  whole 


YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE       103 

day  and  when  he  entered  his  room  at  all  in  the 
evening,  it  was  to  take  a  few  puffs  from  the 
narghile  before  going  to  sleep  in  his  section  of  the 
hut.  He  seldom  spoke  to  her  at  all  and  when 
he  did,  it  was  only  to  warn  her  against  drinking 
too  much  water,  because  of  the  fall  fevers,  and 
to  instruct  her  in  the  use  of  certain  herbs  for 
flavoring  the  pilaff. 

As  she  had  insulted  the  women  of  the  tribe, 
they  avoided  her  until  the  time  when  she  would 
greet  them  properly  in  Allah's  name.  A  few 
weeks  after  she  had  been  taken  from  her  father's 
house,  Yahde  began  to  forget  her  dagger  when 
Kurguz  entered  the  room.  And  as  he  left  it  with- 
out ever  speaking  to  her,  much  less  making  love" 
to  her,  Yahde's  fears  of  the  man  changed  into  un- 
easiness as  to  her  own  charm. 

Why,  he  had  paid  six  hundred  ducats  in  gold 
for  her  and  she  was  as  nothing  to  him!  Had  she 
lost  her  beauty  ?  She  wanted  him  to  give  her  an 
occasion  to  fight  for  her  liberty  of  choice.  He 
did  not  give  her  the  occasion. 

She  surprised  herself  by  thinking  more  of 
Kurguz  than  of  Sander  Suliman.  Sander  was 
young  and  beautiful  but  he  was  not  half  as  strong 
as  Kurguz.  How  Kurguz  could  ride!  How  a 
horse  seemed  to  grow  smaller  and  smaller  when 
he  rode  it !  Even  the  horses  seemed  to  know  that 
he  was  the  supreme  master. 

Once,  while  he  was  away  during  the  day,  she 


104   YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE 

entered  his  section  of  the  hut  and  inspected  his 
clothes.  They  were  heavy  and  ample  and  the 
finely  spun  red  silk  sashes  were  wide  and  long. 
Then  another  and  another  day  passed  and  Kur- 
guz  never  gave  her  occasion  to  think  of  the  dag- 
ger. In  the  first  days  she  had  spoken  to  him 
about  selling  her  back  to  Sander  Suliman,  but 
now  she  no  longer  mentioned  the  boy's  name. 

She  was  at  first  grateful  to  Kurguz  for  his  be- 
havior, but  after  a  few  weeks  his  negligence  be- 
came an  insult.  She  would  have  liked  him  to 
assert  himself.  She  still  hoped  he  would.  She 
would  defend  herself,  of  course.  But  he  was  so 
powerful,  his  arms  so  strong  and  his  shoulders 
were  so  wide. 

But  no.  She  was  as  nothing  to  him.  And  he 
had  paid  six  hundred  ducats  of  gold.  Had  he 
seen  a  more  beautiful  one? 

And  then  one  day  a  terrible  longing  came 
upon  her  to  run  away,  to  run  back  to  her  vil- 
lage, to  her  father,  to  Sander  Suliman,  to  men 
who  fawned  upon  her,  who  watched  her  every 
step. 

She  waited  for  the  right  moment,  when  Kur- 
guz was  busy;  then  she  saddled  his  horse  and 
started  homeward.  After  the  horse  had  spent 
his  first  wind  galloping  at  top  speed,  Yahde 
turned  around,  expecting  Kurguz  behind  her. 
But  the  road  was  clear  and  she  heard  not  a  single 


YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE       105 

hoof  beat  as  she  listened  with  an  ear  to  the 
ground. 

"It's  good,"  she  thought.  "He  has  not  no- 
ticed my  absence  yet.  This  gives  me  two 
hours." 

Two  hours  later,  as  she  gave  the  horse  his  sec- 
ond rest,  there  was  still  no  sign  or  sound  of  any 
one  pursuing  her. 

"By  this  time,"  she  thought,  "he  must  have 
noticed  that  the  horse  is  missing." 

And  she  listened  and  looked,  full  of  expect- 
ancy. Before  she  had  given  the  horse  his  third 
rest  she  longed  for  Kurguz  to  come  and  compel 
her  to  return  with  him.  But  she  was  as  nothing 
to  him.  Six  hundred  ducats  in  gold  and  he  cared 
not  whether  she  stayed  with  him  or  not.  Surely, 
should  he  still  want  her,  he  would  have  over- 
taken her  long  ago. 

She  lessened  the  speed  of  the  horse  under  her 
and  the  farther  the  distance  between  herself  and 
Kurguz  was  increased,  the  stronger  was  her  wish 
to  be  in  his  hut  again. 

Once  she  thought  she  had  heard  hoof  beats  a 
stone's  throw  behind  her  and  she  increased  the 
pace  of  her  horse.  He  would  not  have  her  with- 
out a  struggle*.  Yet,  after  she  had  ridden  half 
an  hour  at  full  gallop  and  turned  around,  she 
heard  nothing  but  the  echo  of  the  hoof -beats  of 
her  own  horse. 

No,  he  cared  not  for  her;  otherwise  she  would 


106   YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE 

not  ride  alone  now.  She  rode  the  whole  day, 
and  before  the  moon  had  come  up  she  recog- 
nized the  path  to  her  village.  But  her  heart  did 
not  leap  with  joy  to  be  so  near  Sander  Suli- 
man. 

Yahde  threw  herself  down  on  the  wet  ground, 
buried  her  face  in  the  moss  and  cried :  "He  does 
not  care.  He  does  not  care." 

When  the  last  fire  had  died  away,  she  entered 
her  father's  village. 

Early  the  following  morning  the  whole  tribe 
knew  that  Yahde  had  returned  to  her  home  and 
it  also  became  known  that  she  wore  no  veil,  which 
was  a  sign  that  she  was  as  yet  Osman  Ali's 
daughter.  Sander  Suliman  came  to  see  her. 

"Oh,  Yahde,  my  proud  one !"  he  exclaimed. 

But  she  would  let  him  say  nothing  further. 

"You  know  what  will  happen  now,"  Yahde 
spoke  to  the  boy,  "Kurguz  Mehmet  will  come 
with  his  men  and  they  will  fight  for  me." 

"Let  him  come,"  answered  Sander  Suliman; 
"he  will  find  us  ready  for  him." 

"I  shall  not  say  a  word  against  Kurguz  Meh- 
met," answered  Yahde's  father.  "He  has  paid 
for  her.  Let  him  come  for  her.  But  if  you  de- 
feat him  and  his  men,  she  will  be,  like  the  other 
women  of  his  tribe,  spoils  of  war.  I  have 
spoken." 

Yahde  had  run  away  from  her  husband.    If 


YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE      107 

the  tribe  chose  to  defend  her,  only  force  could 
wrest  her  from  them.  And  the  Kurguzs  were 
not  loved  by  the  Osmanlis. 

Sander  Suliman  assembled  the  men  of  the 
village.  They  left  plow  and  field,  drove  the  oxen 
to  the  corrals  and  in  a  few  minutes  each  one  of 
them  was  on  horseback,  armed  to  the  teeth  and 
ready  to  fight.  Old  blunderbusses  clicked  with 
unsheathed  long  swords  of  all  makes,  and  yata- 
ghans and  long  daggers  were  sharpened  with  oil 
stones  even  as  the  horses  pranced  around.  Short- 
barreled  shotguns  and  long-barreled  pistols  were 
stuck  in  the  wide  belts  and  heavy  axes  were  fas- 
tened to  the  saddles. 

The  women  and  the  children,  all  those  unable 
to  fight,  surrounded  the  warriors,  shouted  advice 
and  yelled  and  cursed.  Shots  were  fired  to  try 
out  the  firearms  and  the  men  swung  their  glisten- 
ing white  weapons  to  try  their  balance,  and  the 
grip  of  the  handles.  Then,  when  all  was  ready, 
the  two  hundred  or  more  riders  swung  around 
and  with  Sander  Suliman  at  their  head  they  rode 
seven  times  around  Osman  Ali's  hut,  yelling  their 
vows  to  defend  Yahde  from  that  old  horse-thief, 
Kurguz  Mehmet,  who  did  not  even  know  how  to 
keep  a  wife  after  he  had  paid  six  hundred  ducats 
in  gold  for  her.  And  who  is  not  worthy  to  keep 
her  is  not  worthy  to  have  her.  Such  was  the  law. 

Suliman  led  the  men  to  the  head  of  the  road 
leading  toward  Kurguz  Mehmet's  village,  and 


108   YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE 

there  they  camped  to  wait  for  the  Tartar  chief  to 
come  and  claim  his  run-away  bride.  They 
laughed  and  made  all  sorts  of  allusions  to  the 
fact  that  Yahde  as  yet  wore  no  veil,  as  they 
lighted  fires  and  sang  and  danced  to  pass  the  time. 
The  whole  day  they  waited  and  when  the  sun 
had  set,  there  had  been  no  sign  of  Kurguz  Meh- 
met  and  his  men. 

"That  horse-thief  will  fall  upon  us  in  the  dead 
of  night,"  some  one  said,  and  the  Tartars  with 
Sander  Suliman  camped  in  the  open  around  the 
fire. 

Patrols  were  sent  out  as  advance  guards,  but 
they  returned  reporting  there  was  no  sign  of  the 
enemy.  In  her  hut  Yahde  waited  anxiously  for 
Kurguz  Mehmet  to  come  and  fight  for  her.  She 
was  sure  that  he  would  defeat  them.  He  was  so 
powerful,  so  strong,  so  adroit.  But  the  whole 
day  and  the  whole  night  had  passed  and  there 
was  no  sign  of  his  coming. 

"He  does  not  care.  He  does  not  care,"  she 
cried,  as  the  hours  went  by. 

The  Osmans  still  camped  on  the  road,  sang, 
danced,  shrieked  and  shot  their  firearms  in  con- 
tests, but  the  Kurguzs  did  not  come  to  give  them 
battle. 

"He  is  afraid  to  come,"  said  Sander  Suliman 
proudly,  as  he  spoke  to  Yahde  through  the  low- 
ered lattices  of  the  window  of  her  room. 


YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE      109 

A  bitter  laugh  was  her  answer.  Kurguz 
afraid ! 

How  little  they  knew  him.  He  could  fight 
them  all  single-handed.  She  was  sure  of  that. 
Only  he  did  not  care  for  her.  She  was  as  noth- 
ing to  him.  He  cared  nothing  for  her.  He  cared 
still  less  for  the  six  hundred  ducats  in  gold. 

The  whole  village  was  up  and  about  for  days 
and  days,  excitedly  expecting  the  big  fight,  and, 
as  nothing  happened,  Yahde  felt  that  she  would 
become  the  butt  of  ridicule.  And  even  Sander 
Suliman  would  think  less  of  her  now.  A  woman 
whose  husband  does  not  even  want  to  come  and 
fight  for  her! 

She  knew  how  Kurguz  could  fight  if  he 
wanted.  She  had  seen  him  throw  oxen  as  if  they 
were  lambs.  And  Sander  looked  so  small  and 
puny  when  compared  to  Kurguz.  Suliman  was 
loud-mouthed  and  his  gestures  were  without  deci- 
sion and  without  wide  sweep.  How  could  she 
ever  have  thought  that  she  loved  him? 

And  lo,  when  Yahde  had  given  up  all  hope 
that  Kurguz  might  ever  come  and  do  her  the 
honor  to  demand  her  return,  to  fight  for  her,  one 
morning  Kurguz  Mehmet,  afoot  and  without  a 
firearm,  knocked  at  Osman  Ali's  door. 

At  the  sight  of  him  Yahde's  heart  leaped  for 
joy  one  moment  and  was  frozen  still  the  next. 
He  had  come  on  foot,  alone  and  without  firearms. 

Yahde's  father  wished  the  visitor  peace  unto 


110   YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE 

Allah  as  he  poured  water  from  a  gourd  that 
Kurguz  Mehmet  might  wash  his  hands  before 
entering  the  house. 

While  the  two  men  squatted  on  the  rug  and 
were  politely  inquiring  about  each  other's  health 
and  well-being,  Yahde  was  hidden  behind  a  cur- 
tain to  listen  to  what  they  said. 

After  what  seemed  interminable  hours  for 
Yahde,  during  which  the  two  men  studied  each 
other's  face,  Kurguz  Mehmet  said: 

"Osman  Ali,  I  have  come  for  my  horse.  The 
horse  on  which  Yahde  has  come  back  to  you." 

"It's  in  the  stable,  Kurguz  Mehmet,"  her 
father  answered. 

"Then  I  shall  leave  presently,  remembering 
your  hearty  welcome,  Osman  Ali." 

Kurguz  Mehmet,  followed  by  Yahde's  father, 
entered  the  stable,  rubbed  his  horse's  nose  as  he 
spoke  a  few  words  to  it  and  swung  on  its  back 
as  soon  as  he  had  led  the  animal  outside. 

But  the  horse  had  barely  gone  a  dozen  paces 
when  Yahde,  with  veil  over  her  face,  had  wound 
her  arms  around  Kurguz' s  bare  leg  and  crying 
loud  enough  for  all  to  hear,  she  begged : 

"Of  my  own  free  will,  Kurguz  Mehmet,  tamer 
of  wild  horses,  of  my  own  free  will,  thou  might- 
iest of  the  mighty,  take  me  to  your  bosom  or  I 
shall  die  by  my  own  hand." 

Kurguz  lifted  her  veil  and  looked  sharply  into 
Yahde's  eyes;  then  he  helped  her  up  beside  him 


YAHDE,  THE  PROUD  ONE      111 

and  the  horse  galloped  away,  while  the  men  of 
Osman's  village,  with  Sander  Suliman  at  their 
rear,  returned  to  their  labors,  leading  their 
horses  and  carrying  the  muskets  barrel  down- 
ward, humiliated,  defeated  by  an  unarmed  man. 


TINKA 

ON  the  shores  of  the  Rumanian  Danube,  right 
at  the  foot  of  the  Dobrudja  mountains,  there 
lived  a  tribe  of  gypsy  musicians.  Their  fame 
spread  far  over  villages  and  hamlets  and  no  mar- 
riage feast  or  celebration  of  any  kind  was  consid- 
ered possible  without  the  presence  of  at  least  one 
of  Kosta's  band.  Kosta  himself,  the  leader, 
played  only  on  rare  occasions,  at  the  feasts  of  the 
rich  Boyars,  at  their  weddings,  at  the  birth  of 
their  children. 

Kosta  was  a  very  proud  man.  He  had  a  very 
high  opinion  of  himself,  his  art  and  his  impor- 
tance and  behaved  in  a  manner  befitting  such  a 
high  personage.  His  black  wavy  hair  was  always 
well  oiled  and  sleek,  his  ear-rings  were  of  the 
purest  gold  and  his  picturesque  clothes,  blue 
pants  and  embroidered  white  shirt  hanging  over 
the  belt,  were  always  clean  and  fresh  as  though 
just  from  the  tailor.  His  tremendous  strength 
and  catlike  suppleness  added  to  the  man's  self- 
confidence,  giving  him  the  appearance  of  a  true 
King  of  his  tribe.  His  word  was  law.  His 
slightest  wish  a  holy  command.  Kosta  had  two 
sons  and  one  daughter.  Yorga,  the  oldest,  a 

112 


TINKA  113 

boy  of  about  twenty,  played  the  flute,  and 
Mena,  two  years  his  junior,  played  the  cym- 
bal, a  sort  of  zither  with  a  greater  sonority  and 
wider  range  of  tone.  Usually  the  womenfolk  of 
the  gypsies  are  not  musicians,  but  Kosta's  daugh- 
ter, Tinka,  was  an  exception.  She  had  secretly 
practiced  the  violin,  and  at  the  age  of  ten  she 
surprised  the  whole  tribe  with  a  feat  they  will 
never  forget.  It  happened  thus : 

During  the  day  the  whole  tribe  took  part  in  a 
joyous  feast  to  the  genii  of  spring.  The  flask  of 
brandy  was  refilled  many  times,  and  at  nightfall 
they  all  slept  round  the  camp-fire  or  had  been 
dragged  by  their  women  into  the  huts. 

Kosta  tried  to  sleep,  but  in  vain.  A  few  days 
before  he  had  been  insulted  by  one  of  the  Boyars 
and  this  had  embittered  him  so  that  no  amount  of 
brandy  could  offset  his  anger  and  hatred.  This 
thought  lay  coiled  up  in  his  savage  heart.  It 
wriggled  like  a  serpent  and  poisoned  his  mind, 
it  stole  his  peace,  his  sleep.  Yet  he  could  not 
lighten  his  burden  with  an  oath,  or  a  curse.  He 
could  not  complain  to  his  tribe.  He  was  the 
leader.  He  had  nobody  to  whom  to  complain. 

Kosta  could  not  sleep ;  he  rose  from  his  cot  and 
entered  the  f erest  at  the  back  of  the  house ;  there 
he  unburdened  himself  to  the  trees  and  the  cres- 
cent moon;  unburdened  his  heart  of  all  the  rust 
that  was  eating  his  life.  There  was  no  connected 
sentence  or  oath.  He  roared  like  a  lion,  occasion- 


114  TINKA 

ally  howling  out  the  name  of  his  insulter.  Then 
he  kicked  the  trunks  of  the  trees  and  stamped  the 
ground.  Needing  sympathy,  he  kissed  the  bark 
and  cried  himself  to  sleep  with  his  arms  wound 
around  an  old  oak.  For  many  hours  he  slept  on 
his  feet.  The  barking  of  the  dogs  from  the  near- 
by village  woke  him.  Soothed,  he  reentered  the 
hut  and  tried  his  cot,  but  he  was  soon  again  on  his 
feet.  Kosta  took  his  violin,  and  sitting  on  a  tree 
stump  he  let  the  bow  wander  erratically  over  the 
strings.  To  the  Danube  and  the  moon  and  the 
trees  he  played.  Nay,  he  let  the  Danube  and 
the  trees  and  the  moon  play  a  song  on  his  violin, 
his  bow  flying  as  though  driven  by  a  magic  power. 
Sounds,  ethereal  and  transparent  rose  and  filled 
the  air.  Between  a  dance  of  fairies  and  elf s  there 
came  a  voluptuous  song,  as  though  the  Danube 
herself  were  singing  her  swan  song.  Kosta 
knew  nothing.  His  eyes  were  closed  and  his 
soul  was  in  higher  spheres  whence  no  one 
descends  with  a  consciousness  of  what  has 
happened.  As  Kosta  played,  his  son,  the 
cymbalist,  came  and  sat  down  near  his  father. 
Soon,  haunting  chords  accompanied  the  melody 
of  violin.  Then  came  the  other  son,  Mena,  and 
filled  in  the  harmony  with  his  flute.  Shortly  the 
whole  tribe  was  sitting  around  the  leader,  each 
one  cautiously  and  consciously  playing  the  im- 
provised symphony  of  the  gods. 

Tinka,  Kosta's  daughter,  who  was  then  only 


TINKA  115 

ten  years  old,  sat  near  her  father  and  when  the 
violin  glided  out  of  the  man's  grip  she  took  it  up 
and  continued  what  he  had  started.  They  all  lis- 
tened. One  by  one  they  stopped  playing.  Only 
from  a  guitar  there  rose  a  sound  at  the  fall  of  a 
cadenza.  From  out  the  violin  sang  a  world  of 
angels  and  from  each  mouth  poured  a  stream  of 
rubies,  smaragds  and  topazes.  Each  man's 
life  was  played  from  before  the  cradle  until  after 
the  grave.  Each  joy,  each  sorrow,  each  hidden 
hope,  each  desire  was  accentuated,  and  as  they 
heard  her  play  Yorga  discovered  that  it  was  not 
Marta  but  Eliza  that  he  really  loved,  and  Marcu 
knew  that  he  had  falsely  accused  his  wife  of  infi- 
delity and  Joana  know  that  she  loved  Stan.  Es- 
tranged friends  crept  near  to  one  another  and 
clasped  hands  and  kissed.  Old  hatreds  were 
strengthened  or  were  wiped  out.  Streams  of 
passionate  songs  poured  forth :  songs  of  wine,  or 
tears,  of  kisses  and  of  death. 

Slowly  the  moon  crept  from  under  the  moun- 
tains and  stood  still  to  listen.  The  trees  bent 
lower  and  even  the  river  stopped  its  murmuring 
to  listen  and  broaden  its  life.  Then  suddenly 
Tinka  started  a  dance,  a  joyous,  glorious,  trip- 
ping dance,  and  they  all  rose,  arms  locked  with 
arms,  and  danced.  And  the  river,  the  trees,  the 
moon,  the  stars  and  the  mountains — everything 
— danced  madly  until  the  first  rays  of  the  sun  lit 
the  sharp  shores  of  the  Danube.  Then  Tinka 


116  TINKA 

fell  into  a  faint,  while  the  violin  still  echoed  the 
sounds  of  her  divine  inspiration. 

From  that  day  on  Tinka  was  considered  the 
Goddess  of  the  tribe.  As  she  grew  older  she 
played  with  even  more  fire  and  abandon.  Her 
fame  spread  over  the  whole  district  and  each 
member  of  the  community  of  gypsies  grew  in 
importance.  Kosta  became  unapproachable, 
and  though  he  was  asked  several  times  to  bring 
his  daughter  with  him  when  he  played  at  a  feast 
he  refused  steadfastly. 

"Tinka  plays  only  for  us,"  he  would  explain, 
emphasizing  the  ?is  with  great  pride.  "She  does 
not  have  to  play  for  pay.33 

All  the  same  nearly  all  the  people  had  heard 
her  play  as  they  strolled  on  the  shores  or  cooled 
themselves  under  the  trees.  Tinka  herself  was 
petted  and  cuddled.  She  had  rings  of  gold  and 
platinum  and  precious  stones  of  all  colors  and 
ear-rings  of  all  kinds,  pendants  and  studs  and 
salbias  and  bracelets  and  diadems  and  neck- 
laces of  pearls  and  emeralds.  Her  dresses  were 
of  the  best  silks  and  of  all  colors.  Each  day  added 
something  to  her  trunk  and  jewel  box.  Yet  all 
this  did  not  make  her  happy.  She  had  a  sad 
soul.  She  played  with  her  jewels  and  found  no 
joy.  She  fingered  and  crumpled  the  frippery 
and  her  heart  ached. 

Thus  the  young  gypsy  girl  grew  to  maiden- 


TINKA  117 

hood,  petted  and  spoiled,  yet  neglected  because 
they  loved  her  too  much.  The  boys,  considering 
her  a  holy  being,  dared  not  love  her.  Those  upon 
whom  her  desires  were  fixed  married  girls  on  the 
same  plane  as  themselves.  All  hints  the  maiden 
gave  of  her  love,  love  of  woman  to  man,  were 
always  misinterpreted,  beatified. 

Tinka!  Who  could  think  of  marrying  the 
Madonna!  Tinka!  Who  has  ever  seen  the  girl 
can  never  forget  her.  Her  olive-hued  oval  face, 
lit  by  two  almond-shaped,  dark  moist  eyes;  her 
red  lips;  the  two  rows  of  white  pearls,  like  two 
verses  of  a  divine  poem,  she  showed  when  she 
spoke.  In  her  thick  black  hair  always  nestled  a 
red  rose  in  the  summer  and  an  evergreen  sprig 
in  the  winter.  "Her  arms,  her  neck,  her  shoul- 
ders, her  bosom,  a  divine  revelation.  A  creature 
born  from  the  embrace  of  Venus  and  Apollo. 

Tinka!  Who  ever  heard  her  speak!  Blessed 
the  one  who  has  heard  her  sing! 

On  a  late  autumn  evening,  Radu,  the  son  of 
the  Boyar,  walked  through  the  forest  with  his 
sister,  Marya.  He  had  been  absent  from  home 
for  the  last  five  years,  studying  in  Germany. 
And  the  sister  had  so  many  questions  to  ask 
about  this  far-away  country  that  she  gave  her 
brother  no  peace,  but  followed  him  about  from 
early  morn  until  night. 


118  TINKA 

As  they  crossed  the  road,  the  young  Boyar 
stood  still,  seizing  his  sister's  arm. 

"Who  is  playing?" 

"Tinka,"  the  girl  answered.  "Tinka,  Kosta's 
daughter." 

Radu  stood  riveted  to  the  ground.  From  near 
the  river  came  a  melody  that  carried  in  its  breath 
all  the  sorrows  of  the  world,  as  though  the  voice 
came  from  the  Danube,  from  the  spirit  of  the 
mountains  and  the  trees.  Broad  and  full  the 
melody  came  in  large  measures,  like  the  verses  of 
the  prophets  of  old,  like  milk  from  a  healthy 
mother's  round  breasts. 

Radu  listened.  He  himself  played  the  violin 
and  knew  what  he  was  hearing.  Then,  when  the 
playing  had  ceased,  he  asked  his  sister  to  guide 
him  to  the  camp  of  the  musicians. 

They  were  soon  there.  Around  a  fire  sat  the 
whole  tribe,  men,  women  and  children,  their  dark 
faces  gleaming  in  the  light  of  the  flames.  No  one 
moved.  Their  souls  were  borne  away  to  other 
regions,  to  other  loves,  of  the  past  and  of  the 
future.  Kosta  was  the  first  to  see  the  young 
Boyar  and  his  sister.  At  his  word  they  all  rose 
and  approached  the  young  master  respectfully. 
Only  Tinka  still  sat  in  the  grass,  the  violin  in 
her  lap. 

"Who  played  the  violin  so  beautifully?"  Radu 
asked. 

"Tinka,"  Kosta  answered;  "my  Tinka,"  he 


TINKA  119 

added  with  pride.  Then  turning  around  he 
called:  "Tinka,  Tinkala,  come  here." 

At  her  father's  call  the  girl  roused  herself  and 
approached.  Tinka  and  Radu  looked  only  once 
into  each  other's  eyes,  then  they  simultaneously 
bent  their  heads.  The  moon  stood  priestlike, 
anointing  them  in  eternal  love.  No  word  was 
exchanged. 

Tinka  returned  to  the  fire  and  Radu  went  with 
his  sister,  but  their  souls  had  touched  and  re- 
mained entwined. 

Radu  took  his  sister  home  and  tried  to 
sleep,  but  in  vain.  He  felt  a  burning  desire  to 
see  the  gypsy  girl,  to  hear  her  voice,  to  feel  her 
physical  nearness.  Several  times  he  put  out  the 
candle  and  closed  his  eyes,  but  the  instant  he 
did  so  he  heard  Kosta  call  out: 

"Tinka,  Tinkala,  come  here,"  and  the  girl 
came,  looked  up  at  him  and  bent  her  head. 

The  young  Boyar  mentally  reenacted  the 
scene  time  after  time,  each  time  with  more  inten- 
sity, continuing  it  to  a  different  conclusion.  .  .  . 
Tinka  comes  up  and  winds  her  arm  round  his 
neck  and  kisses  him  full  on  the  mouth.  His 
sister  flees  in  horror,  and  he — he  does  not  care, 
he  remains  there.  The  whole  tribe  is  against 
him.  Soon  they  approach  him  menacingly  with 
sticks  and  stones.  Kosta  at  the  head  of  them  all. 


120  TINKA 

But  he,  Radu,  will  not  let  her  go.  She  nestles 
so  close  to  him. 

"Take  me  with  you — my  love,"  she  whispers. 
He  retreats  with  her  in  his  arms,  to  the  forest. 
They  pursue  him.  The  forest  is  full  of  wolves. 
The  animals  approach  him.  The  wild  eyes 
gleam  and  glisten,  and  from  the  red  tongues 
trickle  blood.  They  are  a  big  pack — they  come 
howling.  Tinka  is  so  afraid  that  she  lies  limp 
in  his  arms.  He  retreats  back  to  the  camp,  and 
when  at  the  edge  of  the  wood  all  the  gypsies  sur- 
round them  and  laugh  at  them.  Their  eyes  gleam, 
too,  their  tongues  also  trickle  blood.  Their  heads 
are  wolfish — wolves  heads  on  human  bodies. 
Kosta's  head  is  the  most  terrible  of  all.  He 
approaches  with  set  teeth.  Radu  wants  to  run 
away,  but  his  feet  are  glued  to  the  burning 
soil.  .  .  . 

Towards  morning  he  fell  asleep  with  a  well- 
defined  plan  as  to  how  he  would  obtain  the  love 
of  the  girl.  He  even  decided  henceforth  to  lead 
the  life  of  a  wandering  gypsy.  They  would  both 
wander — he  and  Tinka. 

When  the  young  Boyar  and  his  sister  left, 
Tinka  listened  to  their  departing  steps.  She 
heard  the  echo  of  a  laugh  and  bit  her  lips  with 
anger. 

"Is  he  laughing  at  me?"    But  she  soon  quieted 


TINKA  121 

down,  feeling  that  it  was  the  sister,  not  the  young 
man,  who  had  laughed,  and  she,  too,  dreamed  of 
a  thousand  pleasant  things  in  connection  with 
the  Boyar's  son.  Again  she  took  up  her  violin, 
but  she  did  not  play  long.  She  put  the  instru- 
ment aside  and  threw  herself  into  her  father's 
arms,  petted  and  kissed  and  called  him  endear- 
ing names.  She  played  with  his  long  mustache 
and  stroked  his  beard  and  gray  hair. 

"Oh,  Papa — paplic."  Then  she  suddenly  left 
the  camp  and  went  to  her  bed,  where  she  lay 
awake  part  of  the  night  thinking  of  him — of  the 
strange  man. 

Towards  morning  she  fell  asleep  with  the  hope 
that  she  would  see  him  during  the  day.  She 
must  see  him — he  was  hers.  Hers  by  the  deci- 
sion of  the  moon  and  the  stars  and  the  skies, 
under  whose  canopy  the  knot  had  been  tied. 

When  she  arose  the  sun  was  high  in  the  heav- 
ens. The  men  were  all  gone  about  their  busi- 
ness. It  was  Sunday  and  they  had  calls  to  play 
at  festivities.  The  women  were  busy  round  the 
house. 

Tinka  dressed  in  her  best,  put  on  all  her 
jewels,  and,  jumping  on  her  favorite  horse,  she 
trotted  up  the  road.  At  the  edge  of  the  river 
she  let  the  horse  free  to  pasture  and  entered  the 
forest. 


122  TINKA 

Soon  she  heard  a  horse's  neigh.  Seized  with 
fright,  she  started  to  run. 

"Tinka,  Tinkuza,"  rang  a  sweet  voice  from 
among  the  trees.  The  gypsy  girl  stood  still. 
Her  bosom  heaved  with  emotion.  She  knew  who 
was  calling.  It  was  he 

She  felt  two  lips  sealing  love  on  her  neck,  on 
her  bare  shoulders,  on  her  face.  She  released 
herself  and  looked  for  one  long  minute  into  the 
eyes  of  the  young  Boyar — looked  earnestly  and 
almost  sternly.  Then  she  gave  herself  to  his 
arms — all  the  joys  of  earthly  passion  were  theirs 
in  this  moment  of  sublime  abandon.  She  needed 
no  ceremony,  no  priest,  no  law,  no  Bible.  She 
was  as  free  as  the  trees,  as  the  waves  of  the 
Danube,  as  the  wind,  as  the  birds.  She  was 
Tinka — the  free  child  of  a  free  race,  a  race  unfet- 
tered by  the  intricacies  of  civilization.  The  only 
race  that  has  not  entered  into  the  crucible  of  the 
world  and  become  part  of  its  alloy. 

For  the  next  few  months  the  two  lovers  met 
nightly  at  the  same  spot.  When  every  one  was 
asleep  the  young  gypsy  girl  would  watch  for  the 
signal:  the  howling  of  a  wolf.  When  she  heard 
it  she  would  stealthily  quit  the  hut  and  was  soon 
in  her  lover's  arms. 

Her  playing  was  now  even  more  brilliant  than 
before.  There  was  so  much  young  joy  in  her 
melodies,  the  rhythm  was  so  lively  that  even  the 


TINKA  123 

old  men  and  the  old  women  of  the  tribe  became 
rejuvenated  and  sang  and  danced. 

The  whole  neighborhood  wondered  why  the 
gypsies  had  become  so  lively.  They  attributed 
it  to  a  greater  quantity  of  brandy,  though  the 
truth  was  that  the  gypsies  now  seldom  used  any 
liquors.  They  did  not  need  it.  Even  those  who 
were  addicted  to  drink  and  sorrowful  moods 
dropped  both.  Their  playing  was  more  intense, 
and  the  fame  of  the  tribe  spread  far  over  the 
plains  and  mountains  and  across  the  Danube. 
Through  mysterious  channels  news  spread  of 
Tinka's  witchery,  of  her  bewitching  melodies, 
and  many  were  the  Boyars  who  offered  handfuls 
of  golden  money  to  Kosta  to  bring  his  daughter 
with  him.  Tinka  grew  proud  in  her  happiness. 
Love  colored  her  cheeks,  heightened  her  spirits, 
made  her  audacious,  playful,  bold.  She  looked 
like  a  woman  now,  and  many  of  the  boys  subtly 
changed  their  former  sentiments  towards  her.  It 
was  love  they  now  offered  and  not  reverential 
worship.  But  Tinka  remained  faithful  to  her 
Radu. 

The  young  gypsies  fought  bloody  battles 
among  themselves  and  Kosta  had  to  drive  away 
with  his  fist  many  an  insistent  wooer.  No  one 
knew  of  her  love  for  the  Boyar.  Tinka  herself 
had  never  given  a  thought  as  to  the  outcome  of 
it  all.  Was  she  not  happy?  What  more  did  she 
want? 


124  TINKA 

On  a  certain  night  she  waited  in  vain  to  hear 
the  signal.  The  wolf  did  not  howl.  Then  the 
next  night  and  the  night  after  passed,  and  from 
the  forest  came  no  call.  Worried,  Tinka  wended 
her  way  towards  the  Boyar's  palace  to  obtain 
news.  She  now  remembered  that  recently  his 
embrace  had  not  been  as  fervent  as  before,  his 
lips  had  been  cold,  his  face  drawn. 

"He  is  sick,"  she  thought.  "I  loved  him  too 
much." 

She  met  a  house  servant  on  the  road,  inquired, 
and  was  told  that  the  young  Boyar  had  gone  far, 
far  away  with  the  train,  to  the  land  of  the  Francs. 
It  was  like  the  blow  of  a  sledge  hammer.  She  fell 
unconscious  to  the  ground  and  was  carried  home. 

All  winter  she  lay  in  bed,  most  of  the  time  in 
a  high  fever  and  delirium.  She  raved  about  the 
wolf  who  no  longer  called.  No  one  suspected 
the  reason  of  her  sudden  illness.  The  old  women 
of  the  camp,  who  had  always  considered  her  a 
superhuman  being,  now  thought  that  Beelzebub 
was  exacting  his  due  for  all  the  gifts  he  had 
showered  upon  her  before.  So  they  prayed  to 
the  moon  and  melted  lead  and  cut  off  the  head 
of  a  bat  with  a  new  horseshoe  and  killed  the  black 
cat  when  the  cock  crew  on  the  first  day  of  the 
moon.  To  no  avail.  Tinka  still  raved. 

"The  wolf  does  not  howl  to-night,  and  he  will 
never,  never  howl  to  call  me." 


TINKA  125 

Thus  Tinka  passed  the  whole  winter.  Her 
youth,  however,  carried  her  past  the  dark  door  of 
the  unknown,  and  when  spring  came,  when  the 
first  boughs  greened,  the  sap  of  life  returned  to 
her  veins.  Tinka  grew  stronger  every  day. 
When  the  snow  had  all  melted,  her  heart  was 
again  pulsating.  One  morning,  as  she  sat  in 
front  of  the  hut  and  drank  in  the  rays  of  the  sun, 
meanwhile  combing  her  hair,  Marcu,  Stan's  son, 
passed. 

"Hello,  Tinka,"  he  called,  "are  you  feeling 
better  now?" 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  her.  He  loved  her. 
Tinka  knew  it.  She  raised  her  eyes  and  looked 
into  his  beautiful,  strong  face. 

"Sit  down  near  me,  here,  Marcu."  She  made 
room  for  him.  "I  feel  better  now.  Marcu,  I 
have  been  very  ill." 

"Yes,  Tinka,  we  all  thought  you  would  die.  I 
was  very  sorry — you  know " 

"Did  Sava  marry,  Marcu?" 

"Yes,  she  married  Giza." 

"Did  Mirta  marry?" 

"Yes,  she  married  Pietro." 

And  one  after  another  Tinka  asked  about  all 
the  girls  until  she  found  out  that  Marcu  was  the 
only  one  of  her  former  admirers  who  had  re- 
mained constant.  Marcu  rose  to  go. 

"Don't  hurry,  boy ;  I  like  to  speak  with  you," 
Tinka  stopped  him. 


126  TINKA 

They  sat  together  until  late  in  the  afternoon. 
As  Tinka  grew  stronger  she  would  take  walks, 
leaning  on  the  stalwart  young  gypsy's  arm.  One 
afternoon  they  walked  up  to  the  river.  The  girl 
sat  down  on  the  grass,  while  Marcu  threw  stones 
into  the  water.  He  threw  them  slowly  at  first, 
then  he  increased  his  speed,  and  finally  he  was 
wildly  throwing  them  by  handfuls  and  became 
impatient  when  he  could  not  find  a  handful  ready 
near  him.  Tinka  combed  her  hair  and  smiled 
softly  to  herself.  She  understood  his  fury.  It 
was  his  declaration  of  love.  When  he  became 
tired  he  turned  round,  looked  at  her;  she  smiled 
back — she  accepted  his  love. 

At  sunset  they  were  both  in  the  forest.  Shq 
leaned  on  his  arm  and  he  sang  and  whistled  and 
jerked  his  limbs  wildly.  She  had  almost  forgot* 
ten  Radu,  but  when  they  passed  the  big  oak  tree 
where  she  was  wont  to  meet  the  young  Boyar, 
her  wound  opened  afresh.  All  in  vain  did  Marcu 
call  her  to  him.  Tinka  leaned  against  the  tree 
and  wept  hysterically.  Disgusted,  Marcu  left 
her  there.  "She  is  crazy,"  he  told  his  mother. 

Late  at  night  the  girl  returned  to  her  hut  and 
took  up  her  violin.  She  played  mournful  songs, 
dirges,  broken  by  wild  calls.  The  whole  camp 
wept  with  her.  They  all  grew  sad.  The  old  ones 
wished  they  were  dead;  the  young  ones  seemed 
to  turn  gray;  the  sucklings  turned  from  the 
mothers'  breast — the  milk  was  sour. 


TINKA  127 

Daily  Tinka  played  mournful  songs,  dirges, 
broken  by  wild  calls.  At  night  she  would  go  and 
weep  by  the  old  oak  tree  near  which  she  had  met 
the  young  Radu,  the  Boyar's  son. 

The  old  women  again  pronounced  incantations 
to  the  full  moon ;  lead  was  melted  and  thrown  in 
the  cup  from  which  Tinka  drank.  The  neigh- 
bor's black  cat  was  killed  and  its  intestines  buried 
with  a  few  curls  of  the  girl's  hair.  All  in  vain. 
Beelzebub  kept  her  in  his  power. 

Thus  the  summer  passed.  Tinka  lost  her  grip 
on  the  people.  She  did  not  play  as  before. 
Neither  was  she  ill.  She  became  an  "every- 
body," like  all  the  rest.  No  one  inquired  where 
she  was  going  or  what  she  was  doing.  Even  the 
old  witches  did  not  bother  about  her  any  more. 
Her  father  grumbled  now  that  she  was  not  per- 
forming her  tasks.  He  scolded  her  once  or  twice 
on  account  of  poor  meals.  She  did  not  feel  of- 
fended about  it.  She  was  listless — one  of  the 
herd. 

At  the  dances  the  boys  teased  her  for  behaving 
like  an  old  woman.  Marcu  married  Ivan's 
daughter,  Kosiza,  "the  veal,"  as  they  called  her. 

Autumn  came.  The  harvest  was  done.  The 
farmers  drank  with  their  men,  paid  them  off  at 
the  inn.  Some  of  the  musicians  were  seated  on  a 
table  outside  on  the  green,  and  the  men  danced 
and  sang. 


128  TINKA 

"Here  is  to  next  year's  harvest,"  shouted  one 
of  the  farmers,  glass  in  hand. 

"Hurrah!"  they  all  yelled,  with  glasses  full  of 
new  red  wine. 

"To  next  year's  harvest!  Play  away,  you 
cursed  tziganes!  Play  away,  or  I'll  soak  your 
violin  in  yon  barrel."  And  they  danced  and  sang. 

Across  the  courtyard  stood  a  girl  churning 
butter.  Her  sleeves  were  rolled  up  high  and  her 
bare,  brown  arms  were  white  with  cream  as  high 
as  the  elbows.  A  few  drops  of  milk  were  spat- 
tered on  her  black  eyebrows.  Her  full,  red  lips 
were  spread  wide  in  laughter.  She  churned  and 
laughed,  churned  and  sang. 

Tinka  passed  by.  The  girl  called  her :  "Tinka, 
come  here." 

They  both  talked  of  next  Sunday's  dance,  the 
great  harvest  dance. 

"Put  on  your  best,  Tinka.  The  Boyar  will  be 
there,  the  Boyar  and  his  daughter  and  his  son." 

"What?    Who?"  Tinka  stammered  out. 

"The  Boyar  and  his  daughter  and  his  son 
Radu,"  the  girl  repeated,  churning  ahead  and 
thinking  of  her  new  white  dress. 

Tinka  spoke  no  more.  She  ran  home  and  cried 
until  late  into  the  night. 

"Why  are  you  crying?"  asked  her  father. 

"A  toothache,"  she  lied,  so  as  to  be  allowed  to 
cry  some  more.  Towards  the  morning  she  went 
out  to  the  big  old  oak.  She  knew  for  sure  that 


TINKA  129 

Radu  would  not  be  there,  but  the  big  old  tree, 
with  his  cracked  brown  bark,  looked  so  human 
that  the  girl  had  long  since  taken  him  into  her 
confidence. 

"Oak,  I  have  given  him  all  I  had.  My  heart, 
my  love,  my  soul,  my  body.  Father,  you  have 
been  witness  to  all.  Have  I  ever  refused  any  of 
his  pleasures?  Have  I  not  been  loving  enough? 
Have  I  not  been  good  enough?  You  know  all 
he  demanded.  You  know  that  I  have  given  him 
all.  You  listened  to  us,  and  when  I  wanted  to 
say  'no,'  you  shook  that  big  branch  of  yours,  and 
the  leaves  whispered,  'say  yes.'  Oh!  I  am  not 
sorry — but  why  did  he  leave  me?  Tell  me. 
What  else  could  I  have  given  him  and  I  have  not 
done  so?  Tell  me.  How  else  could  I  have  loved 
him?  I  have  but  one  heart,  one  soul,  one  body. 
It  all  belongs  to  him.  Why  has  he  spurned  me  ? 
Why  am  I  alone  now,  here?  Why  has  he  not 
been  waiting  for  me  here?" 

Thus  spoke  Tinka,  Kosta's  daughter — daugh- 
ter of  the  open  field  and  the  honest  forest,  of  the 
outspoken  mountain  and  the  flowing  river.  And 
the  old  oak  knew  not  what  to  answer,  for  the 
ways  of  men  ,were  unknown  to  him.  He  had 
feared  only  their  ax  until  now,  but  from  Tinka 
he  learned  that  they  have  yet  more  powerful 
weapons — weapons  with  which  to  destroy  their 
own  kind. 


130  TINKA 

In  front  of  the  inn,  on  Sunday  afternoon,  the 
big  harvest  dance  took  place.  On  a  scaffold  were 
seated  all  the  musicians.  Under  the  shading  trees 
tables  were  set,  laden  with  rough  wooden  pitchers 
of  all  colors.  The  old  people,  the  ones  too  old 
to  dance,  sat  and  talked  and  sang.  They  were 
dressed  in  their  best  clothes.  White  flowing 
pants  with  a  wide  red  belt — belts  sometimes  as 
high  as  the  armpits.  On  the  embroidered  shirt 
shone  many  a  medal  won  on  the  battle  field,  and 
an  empty  sleeve  told  an  eloquent  story.  The 
young  people  danced  the  rainbow  dance  in  the 
open  space  between  the  musicians  and  the 
watchers.  The  colors  of  the  dresses  were  so  dif- 
ferent that  several  sets  of  rainbow  dancers  were 
lined  up,  one  in  front  of  the  other.  One  of  the 
boys  commanded  the  movements  and  at  his  order 
every  dancer  had  to  bring  his  girl  to  the  right 
place  according  to  the  prismic  colors  of  the  rain- 
bow. The  one  who  failed  had  to  give  a  hostage, 
later  to  be  redeemed  with  so  many  pitchers  of 
wine.  Wine!  Oh,  what  wine!  A  continuous 
stream  from  three  barrels,  as  though  the  sweet 
juice  was  eager  to  leave  its  dark  prison,  anxious 
to  give  joy  and  forgetfulness  and  hope. 

From  under  a  tree  Tinka  watched  the  spec- 
tacle eagerly.  She  was  dressed  in  her  best 
clothes.  Two  colored  pieces  of  silk,  one  in  front, 
one  in  the  back,  kept  together  by  a  belt  studded 
with  colored  flitters,  covered  the  lower  part  of 


TINKA  131 

her  body.  A  white  shirt  with  open  front,  under 
a  blue  sleeveless  bournouz,  much  the  same  as 
the  Spanish  bolero.  A  red  rose  in  her  hair 
and  all  her  jewels,  rings,  necklaces,  ear-rings, 
bracelets,  all  she  had,  gold,  silver,  copper. 

She  was  very  pale,  but  her  eyes  shone  with  in- 
tense passion — passion  half  love,  half  hatred. 
She  could  kiss,  and  she  might  kill.  She  could 
give  her  life,  and  she  might  take  a  life.  It  was 
another  Tinka,  not  the  Tinka  of  the  oak  tree,  nor 
the  playing  Tinka,  nor  the  loving  Tinka.  It  was 
the  insulted  woman. 

She  watched  and  saw  the  Boyar's  carriage 
coming.  A  joyous  shout  rose  from  the  assembled 
crowd.  A  table  was  cleared  and  the  master  was 
placed  at  the  head,  the  daughter  next  to  him  on 
his  right,  and  on  the  left  another  fair  lady,  to 
whom  Radu  paid  constant  attention. 

The  music  ceased  and  the  Boyar  drank  to  the 
health  of  all.  There  were  shouts  and  yells. 
Tinka  came  out  from  under  the  tree  and  sat  her- 
self in  front  of  Radu.  He  caught  her  eye,  but 
looked  away,  with  no  sign  of  recognition.  In- 
deed, he  was  unmoved  by  her  presence.  Tinka 
trembled  with  rage. 

"I  am  forgotten,"  she  thought. 

They  danced  again,  and  Tinka,  too,  danced 
with  them.  Not  once  did  Radu  look  up.  He 
was  busy  with  his  lady. 

"Forgotten." 


132  TINKA 

The  wine  and  dance  raised  the  spirits  of  all. 
Tinka's  playing  was  remembered  and  they  all 
shouted : 

"Let  Kosta's  daughter  play  for  us."  Kosta 
frowned,  but  Tinka  was  willing.  She  took  her 
father's  violin,  went  to  the  other  end  of  the  table, 
in  front  of  the  Boyars,  and  played.  Awestruck, 
the  peasants  held  their  breath.  It  was  not  a  vio- 
lin which  produced  those  sounds.  It  was  the 
heart  of  God  and  angels  that  poured  an  endless 
flow  of  melody,  gay  and  mournful,  praying  and 
pagan,  tender  and  savage.  Life  streamed  from 
the  bow.  Radu  became  uneasy  at  first.  He 
looked  up  and  felt  her  hot  glance.  Her  steady 
look  riveted  him.  He  spoke  to  the  other  woman, 
but  he  thought  of  the  nights  beneath  the  oak 
now. 

"Why,"  he  thought,  "it  was  all  gone,  and  now 
it  bleeds  again — the  old  wound.  How  can  I? 
She  is  only  a  gypsy  girl." 

"Radu,  you  are  distracted,"  the  other  woman 
remonstrated.  He  stammered  an  excuse  and 
paid  her  the  polite  attentions  required.  Tinka 
lowered  her  violin  and  sang.  He  had  never 
heard  her  sing  before.  She  sang  and  looked  at 
him: 

"I  had  a  heart;  he  trod  upon  it; 
I  had  a  soul ;  he  tore  it  out. 
He  kissed  away  my  youth,  my  joy, 
He  kissed  away  my  youth,  my  joy, 


TINKA  133 

Under  the  tree, 

The  big  old  oak. 
At  night  he  howled  like  a  wolf, 
And  I  came  quickly  to  his  den." 

Yet  no  one  seemed  to  understand  to  whom  all 
this  was  directed.  It  was  one  of  Tinka's  songs, 
one  of  Tinka's  beautiful  songs  and  nothing  more. 
It  did  break  up  the  festival,  because  Radu  grew 
very  ill  on  account  of  the  bad  wine  the  cursed 
Jew  dared  to  serve,  and  they  went  home  earlier 
than  usual  from  such  occasions. 

The  days  that  followed  were  indeed  very  dark 
ones  for  Tinka.  She  had  to  listen  to  her  father's 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  band's  practicing  of  new 
songs  for  the  wedding  of  the  Boyar's  son.  It 
seemed  as  though  every  one  knew  her  pain  and 
wanted  to  take  revenge  for  some  wrong;  this  was 
the  only  explanation  Tinka  could  give  to  their 
persistent  playing.  And  every  stroke  of  the  bow 
ripped  her  wound  open. 

The  night  of  the  wedding  the  Boyar's  car- 
riage came  and  all  the  musicians  clambered  in 
and  began  playing  joyous  songs  before  the 
wagon  started  to  move.  Tinka  remained  all 
alone.  This  loneliness  was  a  great  relief  at  first ; 
she  was  at  last  relieved  from  the  playing  of  her 
father's  men.  But  no  sooner  did  she  quiet  down 
when  the  horrible  pain  started  afresh.  "Radu, 
why  did  you  leave  me?"  Tinka  screamed  aloud. 
,  "Why  did  you  leave  me,  and  why  don't  you  call 


134  TINKA 

me  to  you?"  But  only  the  wind  and  the  rain 
answered  her  cry.  For  hours,  well  into  the  night, 
Tinka  cried.  In  her  great  sorrow  she  tore  her 
own  flesh.  Then  she  suddenly  became  very  quiet 
and  attentive.  Was  it  possible?  Breathlessly 
she  waited  to  hear  again.  Yes,  the  old  signal; 
the  wolf's  howl.  Tinka  opened  the  door  of  the 
hut  and  listened  again.  Yes,  it  was  the  signal. 
"I  am  coming,  Radu,"  and  the  gypsy  girl  dis- 
appeared in  the  forest. 

There  was  no  Tinka  at  home  when  her  father 
returned  the  next  night  from  the  Boyar's  son's 
wedding. 

But  when  the  searching  party  was  deep  in  the 
forest  they  found  her  shoes  and  a  few  bones — all 
the  hungry  wolves  had  left  of  Tinka. 

Still  nobody  understood — except  Radu,  who 
roams  about  the  roads  at  night,  howling  like  a 
wolf. 


LIGHT  and  soft,  as  though  the  wind  were  blow- 
ing the  dust  off  the  silver  clouds  that  floated 
overhead,  the  first  snow  was  falling  over  the  bar- 
ren lands  stretching  between  the  Danube  and  the 
Black  Sea.  A  lowland  wind,  which  had  already 
hardened  and  tightened  the  marshes,  was  blow- 
ing the  snow  skywards.  The  fine  silvery  dust, 
caught  between  the  two  air  currents,  danced  lus- 
tily, blown  hither  and  thither  until  it  took  hold 
of  folds  and  rifts  in  the  frozen  land  and  began 
to  form  rugged  white  ridges  that  stretched  in 
soft  silvery  curves  to  meet  other  growing  moun- 
tains of  snow.  The  lowland  wind,  at  first  a  mere 
breeze  playfully  teasing  the  north  wind,  like  a 
child  that  kicks  the  bed- sheets  before  falling 
asleep,  increased  its  force  and  swiftness,  and 
scattered  huge  mountains  of  snow,  but  the 
steadily  rising  drone  of  the  north  wind  soon  mas- 
tered the  situation.  Like  silver  grain  strewn  by 
an  unseen  hand,  the  snow  fell  obliquely  in  steady 
streams  over  the  land.  A  great  calm  followed. 
The  long  Dobrudgean  winter  had  started.  In  the 
dim  steady  light,  in  the  wake  of  the  great  calm, 

135 


136  FANUTZA 

traveling  towards  the  Danube  from  the  Black 
Sea,  the  Marea  Neagra,  four  gypsy  wagons, 
each  drawn  by  four  small  horses,  appeared  on  the 
frozen  plains.  The  caravan  was  brought  to  a 
standstill  within  sight  of  the  slowly  moving  river. 
The  canvas-covered  wagons  ranged  themselves, 
broadwise,  in  a  straight  line  with  the  wind.  Be- 
tween the  wagons  enough  space  was  allowed  to 
stable  the  horses.  Then,  when  that  part  of  the 
business  had  been  done,  a  dozen  men,  in  furs  from 
head  to  toe,  quickly  threw  up  a  canvas  that  roofed 
the  temporary  quarters  of  the  animals  and  gave 
an  additional  overhead  protection  from  the  snow 
and  wind  to  the  dwellers  of  the  wheeled  homes. 

While  the  unharnessing  and  quartering  of  the 
horses  and  the  stretching  of  the  canvas  roof  pro- 
ceeded, a  number  of  youngsters  jumped  down 
from  the  wagons,  yelling  and  screaming  with  all 
the  power  of  their  lusty  lungs.  They  threw 
snowballs  at  one  another  as  they  ran,  some  in 
search  of  firewood  and  others,  with  wooden  pails 
dangling  from  ends  of  curved  sticks  over  the  left 
shoulder,  in  search  of  water  for  the  horses  and 
for  the  cooking  pots  of  their  mothers. 

Soon  afterwards,  from  little  crooked  black 
chimneys  that  pointed  downwards  over  the  roofs 
of  the  wagons,  thick  black  smoke  told  that  the 
fires  were  already  started.  The  youngsters  came 
back;  those  with  the  full  water  pails  marching 
erectly  with  legs  well  apart;  the  ones  with 


FANUTZA  137 

bundles  of  firewood  strapped  to  their  shoulders 
leaning  forward  on  knotted  sticks  so  as  not  to 
fall  under  the  heavy  burden. 

When  everything  had  been  done,  Marcu,  the 
tall,  gray-bearded  chief,  inspected  the  work.  A 
few  of  the  ropes  needed  tightening.  He  did  it 
himself,  shaking  his  head  in  disapproval  of  the 
way  in  which  it  had  been  managed.  Then  he 
listened  carefully  to  the  blowing  of  the  wind  and 
measured  its  velocity  and  intensity.  He  called 
to  his  men.  When  they  had  surrounded  him,  he 
spoke  a  few  words.  With  shovels  and  axes  they 
set  energetically  to  work,  at  his  direction  packing 
a  wall  of  snow  and  wood  from  the  ground  up 
over  the  axles  of  the  wheels  all  around  the  wag- 
ons so  as  to  give  greater  solidity  to  the  whole  and 
to  prevent  the  cold  wind  from  blowing  under- 
neath. 

By  the  time  the  early  night  settled  over  the 
marshes,  the  camp  was  quiet  and  dark.  Even 
the  dogs  had  curled  up  near  the  tired  horses  and 
had  gone  to  sleep. 

Early  the  following  morning  the  whole  thing 
could  not  be  distinguished  from  one  of  the  hun- 
dreds of  mountains  of  snow  that  had  formed 
overnight.  After  the  horses  had  been  fed  and 
watered,  Marcu,  accompanied  by  his  daughter, 
Fanutza,  left  the  camp  and  went  riverward,  in 
search  of  the  hut  of  the  Tartar  whose  flat-bot- 
tomed boat  was  moored  on  the  shore.  Marcu 


138  FANUTZA 

knew  every  inch  of  the  ground.  He  had  camped 
there  with  his  tribe  twenty  winters  in  succession. 
He  sometimes  arrived  before,  and  at  other  times 
after,  the  first  snow  of  the  year.  But  every  time 
he  had  gone  to  Mehmet  Ali's  hut  and  asked  the 
Tartar  to  row  him  across  the  Danube,  on  the  old 
Rumanian  side,  to  buy  there  fodder  for  the 
horses  and  the  men;  enough  to  last  until  after  the 
river  was  frozen  tight  and  could  be  crossed  se- 
curely with  horses  and  wagon.  He  had  always 
come  alone  to  Mehmet's  hut,  therefore  the  Tar- 
tar, after  greeting  Marcu  and  offering  to  do 
what  his  friend  desired,  inquired  why  the  girl 
was  beside  the  old  chief. 

"But  this  is  my  daughter,  Fanutza,  Mehmet 
Ali,"  Marcu  informed. 

"Who,  Fanutza?  She  who  was  born  here 
fourteen  winters  ago  on  the  plains  here?'* 

"The  same,  the  same,  my  friend,"  Marcu  an- 
swered, as  he  smilingly  appraised  his  daughter. 

Mehmet  Ali  looked  at  the  girl  in  frank  aston- 
ishment at  her  size  and  full  development;  then 
he  said,  as  he  took  the  oars  from  the  corner  of 
the  hut :  "And  I,  who  thought  that  my  friend  had 
taken  a  new  wife  to  himself!  Allah,  Allah! 
How  fast  these  youngsters  grow!  And  why  do 
you  take  her  along  to  the  Ghiaour  side,  to  the 
heathen  side,  of  the  river,  friend?"  he  continued 
talking  as  he  put  heavy  boots  on  his  feet  and 
measured  Fanutza  with  his  eyes  as  he  spoke. 


FANUTZA  139 

"For  everything  there  is  only  one  right  time, 
say  I,  Marcu,"  the  chief  explained  in  measured, 
solemn  voice.  "And  so  now  is  the  time  for  my 
daughter  to  get  married.  I  have  chosen  her  a 
husband  from  amongst  the  sons  of  my  men,  a 
husband  who  will  become  the  chief  when  I  am  no 
longer  here  to  come  to  your  hut  at  the  beginning 
of  every  winter.  She  shall  marry  him  in  the 
spring.  I  now  go  with  her  to  the  bazaars  to  buy 
silks  and  linens  which  the  women  of  my  tribe  will 
fashion  into  new  clothes  for  both.  And  may 
Allah  be  good  to  them."  . 

"Allah  il  Allah"  Mehmet  assured  Marcu. 
"And  who  is  he  whom  you  have  chosen  from 
amongst  your  men?" 

"I  am  old,  Mehmet,  I  would  otherwise  have 
chosen  a  younger  man  for  my  daughter ;  but  be- 
cause I  fear  that  this  or  the  following  winter 
will  be  the  last  one,  I  have  chosen  Stan,  whose 
orphaned  daughter  is  Fanutza's  own  age.  He 
is  good  and  true  and  strong.  Young  men  never 
make  careful  chiefs." 

"That  be  right  and  wise,"  remarked  Mehmet, 
who  was  by  that  time  ready  for  the  trip.  Dur- 
ing the  whole  conversation  the  young  gypsy  girl 
had  been  looking  to  her  father  when  he  spoke 
and  sidewise  when  Mehmet  answered. 

At  fourteen  Fanutza  was  a  full-grown  woman. 
Her  hair,  braided  in  tresses,  was  hanging 
from  underneath  a  black  fur  cap  she  wore  well 


140  FANUTZA 

over  her  forehead.  Her  eyes  were  large  and 
brown,  the  long  eyebrows  were  coal  black.  Her 
nose  was  straight  and  thin  and  the  mouth  full 
and  red.  Withal  she  was  of  a  somewhat  lighter 
hue  than  her  father  or  the  rest  of  the  gypsy  tribe. 
Yet  there  was  something  of  a  darker  grain  that 
lurked  beneath  her  skin.  And  she  was  light  on 
her  feet.  Even  trudging  in  the  deep  snow  she 
seemed  more  to  float,  to  skim  on  top,  than  to 
walk. 

Unconcerned  she  had  listened  to  the  conversa- 
tion that  had  gone  on  between  her  father  and  the 
Tartar  in  the  hut  of  the  boatman.  She  had  hardly 
been  interested  in  the  whole  affair,  yet,  when 
Mehmet  Ali  mentioned  casually  as  soon  as  he  was 
outdoors  that  he  knew  a  man  who  would  pay 
twenty  pieces  of  gold  for  such  a  wife  as  Fanutza, 
she  became  interested  in  the  conversation. 

"I  sell  horses  only,"  Marcu  answered  quietly. 

"Yet  my  friend  and  others  from  his  tribe  have 
bought  wives.  Remember  that  beautiful  Circas- 
sian girl  ?"  the  Tartar  continued,  without  raising 
or  lowering  his  voice. 

"Yes,  Mehmet,  we  buy  wives  but  we  don't  sell 
them." 

"Which  is  not  fair,"  Mehmet  reflected  aloud, 
still  in  the  same  voice. 

By  that  time  they  had  reached  the  river  shore. 
Mehmet,  after  rolling  together  the  oil  cloth  that 
had  covered  the  boat,  helped  the  gypsy  chief  and 


FANUTZA  141 

his  daughter  to  the  stern.  With  one  strong  push 
of  the  oar  on  the  shore  rock,  the  Tartar  slid  his 
boat  a  hundred  feet  towards  the  middle  of  the 
stream.  Then  he  seated  himself,  face  towards 
his  passengers,  and  rowed  steadily  without  say- 
ing a  single  word.  The  gypsy  chief  lit  his  short 
pipe  and  looked  over  his  friend's  head,  trying  to 
distinguish  the  other  shore  from  behind  the  cur- 
tain of  falling  snow.  The  boat  glided  slowly 
over  the  thickening  waters  of  the  Danube.  A 
heavy  snowstorm,  the  heaviest  of  the  year,  lashed 
the  river.  When  Mehmet  had  finally  moored  his 
boat  to  the  Rumanian  side  of  the  Danube,  he 
turned  around  to  the  gypsy  chief  and  said: 

"Be  back  before  sundown.  It  shall  be  my  last 
crossing  of  the  year.  For  when  the  sun  rises  the 
waters  will  be  frozen  still.  The  gale  blows  from 
the  land  of  the  Russians." 

"As  you  tell  me,  friend,"  answered  Marcu, 
while  helping  his  daughter  out  of  the  boat. 

When  the  two  had  gone  a  short  distance  Fa- 
nutza  turned  her  head.  Mehmet  Ali  was  leaning 
on  an  oar  and  looking  after  them.  A  little  later, 
a  hundred  paces  farther,  she  caught  fragments 
of  a  Tartar  song  that  reached  her  ears  in  spite 
of  the  shrill  noises  of  the  wind. 

Marcu  and  his  daughter  entered  the  inn  that 
stood  a  few  hundred  feet  from  the  shore.  The 
innkeeper,  an  old,  fat,  greasy  Greek,  Chiria  An- 
astasidis,  welcomed  the  gypsy  chief.  Not  know- 


142  FANUTZA 

ing  the  relationship  between  the  old  man  and  the 
girl,  he  feared  to  antagonize  his  customer  by  talk- 
ing to  the  young  woman.  He  pushed  a  white 
pine  table  near  the  big  stove  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  and  after  putting  two  empty  glasses  on  the 
table  he  inquired,  "White  or  red?" 

"Red  wine,  Chiria.  It  warms  quicker.  I  am 
getting  old." 

"Old!"  exclaimed  the  Greek,  as  he  brought  a 
small  pitcher  of  wine.  "Old !  Why,  Marcu,  you 
are  as  young  as  you  were  twenty  years  ago." 

"This  is  my  daughter,  Fanutza,  Chiria,  and 
not  my  wife." 

"A  fine  daughter  you  have.  Your  daughter, 
eh?" 

"Yes,  and  she  is  about  to  marry,  too." 

After  they  had  clinked  glasses  and  wished  one 
another  health  and  long  years  the  innkeeper  in- 
quired : 

"All  your  men  healthy?" 

"All.  Only  One-eyed  Jancu  died.  You  re- 
member him.  He  was  well  along  in  years." 

"Bagdaproste.  Let  not  a  younger  man  than 
he  die,"  answered  Anastasidis,  as  he  crossed 
himself. 

After  Marcu  felt  himself  warmed  back  to  life 
by  the  fine  wine  he  inquired  of  Anastasidis  the 
price  of  oats  and  straw  and  hay.  The  innkeeper's 
store  and  his  warehouse  contained  everything 
from  a  needle  to  an  oxcart.  The  shelves  were 


FANUTZA  143 

full  of  dry  goods,  socks,  shirts,  silks,  belts,  fur 
caps,  coats,  and  trousers.  Overhead,  hanging 
from  the  ceiling,  were  heavy  leather  boots,  shoes, 
saddles,  harness  of  all  kinds,  fishers'  nets,  and 
even  a  red-painted  sleigh  that  swung  on  heavy 
chains.  In  one  corner  of  the  store  blankets  were 
piled  high,  while  all  over  the  floor  were  bags  of 
dry  beans  and  peas  and  corn  and  oats.  At  the 
door  were  bales  of  straw  and  hay,  and  outside, 
already  half-covered  with  snow,  iron  plows 
hobnobbed  with  small  anchors,  harrows,  and 
bundles  of  scythes  that  leaned  on  the  wall. 

"Oats  you  wanted?  Oats  are  very  high  this 
year,  Marcu." 

And  the  bargaining  began.  Fanutza  sat  list- 
lessly on  her  chair  and  looked  through  the  win- 
dow. A  few  minutes  later  the  two  men  called 
one  another  thief  and  swindler  and  a  hundred 
other  names.  Yet  each  time  the  bargain  was 
concluded  on  a  certain  article  they  shook  hands 
and  repeated  that  they  were  the  best  friends  on 
earth. 

"Now  that  we  have  finished  with  the  oats, 
Chiria,  let's  hear  your  price  for  corn?  What? 
Three  francs  a  hundred  kilo  ?  No.  I  call  off  the 
bargain  on  the  oats.  You  are  the  biggest  thief 
this  side  of  the  Danube." 

"And  you,  you  lowborn  tzigane,  are  the 
cheapest  swindler  on  earth." 

Quarreling    and    shaking    hands    alternately 


144  FANUTZA 

and  drinking  wine,  Marcu  and  the  Greek  went 
on  for  hours.  The  gypsy  chief  had  already 
bought  all  the  food  for  his  men  and  horses  and 
a  few  extra  blankets  and  had  ordered  it  all  carted 
to  the  moored  boat  where  Mehmet  Ali  was  wait- 
ing, when  Fanutza  reminded  her  father  of  the 
silks  and  linens  he  wanted  to  buy. 

"I  have  not  forgotten,  daughter,  I  have  not 
forgotten."  Fanutza  approached  the  counter 
behind  which  the  Greek  stood  ready  to  serve  his 
customers. 

"Show  us  some  silks,"  she  asked. 

He  emptied  a  whole  shelf  on  the  counter. 

The  old  gypsy  stood  aside,  watching  his  daugh- 
ter as  she  fingered  the  different  pieces  of  colored 
silk,  which  the  shopkeeper  praised  as  he  himself 
touched  the  goods  with  thumb  and  forefinger  in 
keen  appreciation  of  the  quality  he  offered. 
After  she  had  selected  all  the  colors  she  wanted 
and  picked  out  the  linen  and  neckerchiefs  and 
ear-rings  and  tried  on  a  pair  of  beautiful  patent 
leather  boots  that  reached  over  the  knees  and  had 
stripes  of  red  leather  sewed  on  with  yellow  silk 
on  the  soft  vamps,  Fanutza  declared  that  she  had 
chosen  everything  she  wanted.  The  bargaining 
between  the  Greek  and  the  gypsy  was  about  to 
start  anew  when  Marcu  looked  outdoors 
thoughtfully,  stroked  his  beard  and  said  to  the 
innkeeper: 

"Put  away  the  things  my  daughter  has  se- 


FANUTZA  145 

lected.  I  shall  come  again,  alone,  to  bargain  for 
them." 

"If  my  friend  fears  he  has  not  enough  money 
.  .  ."  suavely  intervened  Anastasidis,  as  he 
placed  a  friendly  hand  on  the  gypsy's  arm. 

"When  Marcu  has  no  money  he  does  not  ask 
his  women  to  select  silk,"  haughtily  interrupted 
the  gypsy.  "It  will  be  as  I  said  it  will  be.  I 
come  alone  in  a  day  if  the  river  has  frozen.  In 
a  day  or  a  week.  I  come  alone." 

"Shall  I,  then,  not  take  all  these  beautiful 
things  along  with  me,  now?"  asked  Fanutza  in  a 
plaintive  reproachful  tone.  "There  is  Marcia 
who  waits  to  see  them.  I  have  selected  the  same 
silk  basma  for  her.  Have  you  not  promised  me, 
even  this  morning  .  .  ." 

"A  woman  must  learn  to  keep  her  mouth 
shut,"  shouted  Marcu,  as  he  angrily  stamped  his 
right  foot  on  the  floor.  He  looked  at  his  daugh- 
ter as  he  had  never  looked  at  her  before.  Only 
a  few  hours  ago  she  was  his  little  girl,  a  child! 
He  was  marrying  her  off  so  soon  to  Stan  against 
his  desire,  although  it  was  the  customary  age  for 
gypsies,  because  of  his  will  to  see  her  in  good 
hands  and  to  give  to  Stan  the  succession  to  the 
leadership  of  his  tribe. 

Only  a  few  hours  ago!  What  had  brought 
about  the  change?  Was  it  in  him  or  in  her? 
That  cursed  Tartar,  Mehmet  Ali,  with  his  silly 
offer  of  twenty  gold-pieces !  He,  he  had  done  it. 


146  FANUTZA 

Marcu  looked  again  at  his  daughter.  Her  eye- 
lids trembled  nervously  and  there  was  a  little 
repressed  twitch  about  her  mouth.  She  returned 
his  glance  at  first,  but  lowered  her  eyes  under 
her  father's  steady  gaze.  "Already  a  shameless 
creature,"  thought  the  old  gypsy.  But  he  could 
not  bear  to  think  that  way  about  his  little  daugh- 
ter, about  his  Fanutza.  He  also  feared  that  she 
could  read  his  thoughts.  He  was  ashamed  of 
what  passed  through  his  mind.  Rapidly  enough 
in  self-defense  he  turned  against  her  the  sharp 
edge  of  the  argument.  Why  had  she  given  him 
all  those  ugly  thoughts? 

"It  will  be  as  I  said,  Anastasidis.  In  a  day 
or  a  week.  When  the  river  has  frozen,  I  come 
alone.  And  now,  Fanutza,  we  go.  Night  is 
coming  close  behind  us.  Come,  you  shall  have 
all  your  silks." 

The  Greek  accompanied  them  to  the  door. 
The  cart  that  had  brought  the  merchandise  to 
the  boat  of  the  waiting  Mehmet  was  returning. 

"The  water  is  thickening,"  the  driver  greeted 
the  gypsy  and  his  daughter. 

They  found  Mehmet  Ali  seated  in  the  boat 
expecting  his  passengers. 

"Have  you  bought  everything  you  intended?" 
the  Tartar  inquired,  as  he  slid  the  oars  into  the 
hoops. 

"Everything,"  Marcu  answered,  as  he  watched 
his  daughter  from  the  corner  of  an  eye. 


FANUTZA  147 

Vigorously  Mehmet  Ali  rowed  till  well  out 
into  the  wide  river  without  saying  another  word. 
His  manner  was  so  detached  that  the  gypsy  chief 
thought  the  Tartar  had  already  forgotten  what 
had  passed  between  them  in  the  morning.  Sure 
enough.  Why!  He  was  an  old  man,  Mehmet 
Ali.  It  was  possible  he  had  been  commissioned 
by  some  Dobrudgean  Tartar  chief  to  buy  him  a 
wife.  He  had  been  refused  and  now  he  was  no 
longer  thinking  about  her.  He  would  look  some- 
where else,  where  his  offer  might  not  be  scorned. 
That  offer  of  Mehmet  had  upset  him.  He  had 
never  thought  Fanutza  other  than  as  a  child.  Of 
course  he  was  marrying  her  to  Stan  .  .  .  but  it 
was  more  like  giving  her  a  second  father! 

Suddenly  the  old  gypsy  looked  at  the  Tartar, 
who  had  lifted  his  oars  from  the  water  and 
brought  the  boat  to  an  abrupt  standstill.  Meh- 
met Ali  laid  the  paddles  across  the  width  of  the 
boat  and,  looking  steadily  into  the  eyes  of  Marcu, 
he  said: 

"As  I  said  this  morning,  Marcu,  it  is  not  fair 
that  you  should  buy  wives  from  us  when  you  like 
our  women  and  not  sell  us  yours  when  we  like 
them." 

"It  is  as  it  rs,"  countered  the  gypsy  savagely. 

"But  it  is  not  fair,"  argued  Mehmet,  slyly 
watching  every  movement  of  his  old  friend. 

"If  Mehmet  is  tired  my  arms  are  strong 
enough  to  help  if  he  wishes,"  remarked  Marcu. 


148  FANUTZA 

"No,  I  am  not  tired,  but  I  should  like  my 
friend  to  know  that  I  think  it  is  not  fair." 

There  was  a  long  silence  during  which  the  boat 
was  carried  downstream  although  it  was  kept  in 
the  middle  of  the  river  by  skillful  little  move- 
ments of  the  boatman. 

Fanutza  looked  at  the  Tartar.  He  was  about 
the  same  age  as  Stan  was.  Only  he  was  stronger, 
taller,  broader,  swifter.  When  he  chanced  to 
look  at  her  his  small,  bead-like  eyes  bored  through 
her  like  gimlets.  No  man  had  ever  looked  at 
her  that  way.  Stan's  eyes  were  much  like  her 
own  father's  eyes.  The  Tartar's  face  was  much 
darker  than  her  own.  His  nose  was  flat  and  his 
upper  lip  curled  too  much  noseward  and  the 
lower  one  chinward,  and  his  bulletlike  head  rose 
from  between  the  shoulders.  There  was  no  neck. 
No,  he  was  not  beautiful  to  look  at.  But  he  was 
so  different  from  Stan!  So  different  from  any 
of  the  other  men  she  had  seen  every  day  since  she 
was  born.  Why!  Stan  .  .  .  Stan  was  like  her 
father.  They  were  all  like  him  in  her  tribe ! 

"And,  as  I  said,"  Mehmet  continued  after  a 
while,  "as  I  said,  it  is  not  fair.  My  friend  must 
see  that.  It  is  not  fair.  So  I  offer  you  twenty 
gold  pieces  for  the  girl.  Is  it  a  bargain?" 

"She  is  not  for  sale,"  yelled  Marcu,  under- 
standing too  well  the  meaning  of  the  oars  out  of 
the  water. 

"No?"  wondered  Mehmet,   "not  for  twenty 


FANUTZA  149 

pieces  of  gold?  Well,  then  I  shall  offer  five 
more.  Sure  twenty-five  is  more  than  any  of  your 
people  ever  paid  to  us  for  a  wife.  It  would 
shame  my  ancestors  were  I  to  offer  more  for  a 
gypsy  girl  than  they  ever  received  for  one  of  our 
women." 

"She  is  not  for  sale,"  roared  the  gypsy  at  the 
top  of  his  voice. 

By  that  time  the  Tartar  knew  that  Marcu  was 
not  armed.  He  knew  the  chief  too  well  not  to 
know  that  a  knife  or  a  pistol  would  have  been  the 
answer  to  his  second  offer  and  the  implied  insult 
to  the  race  of  gypsies. 

Twenty-five  gold  pieces!  thought  Fanutza. 
Twenty-five  gold  pieces  offered  for  her  by  a 
Tartar  at  a  second  bid.  She  knew  what  that 
meant.  She  had  been  raised  in  the  noise  of  con- 
tinual bargaining  between  Tartars  and  gypsies 
and  Greeks.  It  meant  much  less  than  a  quarter 
of  the  ultimate  sum  the  Tartar  was  willing  to 
pay.  Would  Stan  ever  have  offered  that  for 
her?  No,  surely  not.  She  looked  at  the  Tartar 
and  felt  the  passion  that  radiated  from  him. 
How  lukewarm  Stan  was !  And  here  was  a  man. 
Stopped  the  boat  midstream  and  bargained  for 
her,  fought  to  possess  her.  Endangered  his  life 
for  her.  For  it  was  a  dangerous  thing  to  do 
what  he  did  and  facing  her  father.  Yet  .  .  . 
she  would  have  to  marry  Stan  because  her  father 
bade  it. 


150  FANUTZA 

"I  don't  mean  to  offend  you,"  the  boatman 
spoke  again,  "but  you  are  very  slow  in  deciding 
whether  you  accept  my  bargain  or  not.  Night  is 
closing  upon  us." 

Marcu  did  not  answer  immediately.  The  boat 
was  carried  downstream  very  rapidly.  They 
were  at  least  two  miles  too  far  down  by  now. 
Mehmet  looked  at  Fanutza  and  found  such  lively 
interest  in  her  eyes  that  he  was  encouraged  to 
offer  another  five  gold  pieces  for  her. 

It  was  a  proud  moment  for  the  girl.  So  men 
were  willing  to  pay  so  much  for  her!  But  her 
heart  almost  sank  when  her  father  pulled  out  his 
purse  from  his  pocket  and  said: 

"Mehmet  Ali,  who  is  my  best  friend,  has  been 
so  good  to  me  these  twenty  years  that  I  have 
thought  to  give  him  twenty  gold  pieces  that  he 
might  buy  himself  a  wife  to  keep  his  hut  warm 
during  the  long  winter.  What  says  he  to  my 
friendship?" 

"That  is  wonderful!  Only  now,  he  is  not  con- 
cerned about  that,  but  about  the  fairness  of  his 
friend  who  does  not  want  to  sell  wives  to  the 
men  whose  women  he  buys.  I  offer  five  more 
gold  pieces  which  makes  thirty-five  in  all.  And 
I  do  that  not  for  Marcu  but  for  his  daughter 
that  she  may  know  that  I  will  not  harm  her  and 
will  forever  keep  her  well  fed  and  buy  her  silks 
and  jewels." 

"Silks !"    It  occurred  to  the  gypsy  chief  to  look 


FANUTZA  151 

at  his  daughter  at  that  moment.  She  turned  her 
head  away  from  him  and  looked  at  the  Tartar, 
from  under  her  brows.  How  had  he  known? 

"A  bargain  is  a  bargain  only  when  two  men 
agree  on  something,  says  the  Koran,"  the  gypsy 
chief  reminded  the  Tartar  boatman.  "I  don't 
want  to  sell  her." 

"So  we  will  travel  downstream  for  a  while," 
answered  Mehmet  Ali  and  crossed  his  arms. 

After  a  while  the  gypsy  chief,  who  had  reck- 
oned that  they  must  be  fully  five  miles  away  from 
his  home  across  the  water,  made  a  new  offer. 

"A  woman,  Mehmet  Ali,  is  a  woman.  They 
are  all  alike  after  you  have  known  them.  So  I 
offer  you  thirty-five  pieces  of  gold  with  which 
you  can  buy  for  yourself  any  other  woman  you 
please  whenever  you  want." 

Fanutza  looked  at  the  Tartar.  Though  it  was 
getting  dark  she  could  see  the  play  of  every 
muscle  of  his  face.  Hardly  had  her  father 
finished  making  his  offer,  when  Mehmet,  after 
one  look  at  the  girl,  said: 

"I  offer  fifty  gold  pieces  for  the  girl.  Is  it  a 
bargain?" 

Fanutza's  eyes  met  the  eyes  of  her  father.  She 
looked  at  him  entreatingly,  "Don't  give  in  to  the 
Tartar,"  her  eyes  spoke  clearly,  and  Marcu  re- 
fused the  offer. 

"I  offer  you  fifty  instead  that  you  buy  your- 
self another  woman  than  my  daughter." 


152  FANUTZA 

"No,"  answered  the  Tartar,  "but  I  offer  sixty 
for  this  one,  here." 

Quick  as  a  flash  Fanutza  changed  the  encour- 
aging glance  she  had  thrown  to  the  passionate 
man  to  a  pleading  look  towards  her  father. 
"Poor,  poor  girl!"  thought  Marcu.  "How  she 
fears  to  lose  me !  How  she  fears  I  might  accept 
the  money  and  sell  her  to  the  Tartar!" 

"A  hundred  gold  pieces  to  row  us  across,"  he 
yelled,  for  the  night  was  closing  in  upon  them 
and  the  boat  was  being  carried  swiftly  down- 
stream. There  was  danger  ahead  of  them. 
Marcu  knew  it. 

"A  hundred  gold  pieces  is  a  great  sum,"  mused 
Mehmet,  "a  great  sum!  It  has  taken  twenty 
years  of  my  life  to  save  such  a  sum  .  .  .  yet, 
instead  of  accepting  your  offer,  I  will  give  you 
the  same  sum  for  the  woman  I  want." 

"Fool,  a  woman  is  only  a  woman.  They  are 
all  alike,"  roared  the  gypsy. 

"Not  to  me!"  answered  Mehmet  Ali  quietly. 
"I  shall  not  say  another  word." 

"Fool,  fool,  fool,"  roared  the  gypsy,  as  he  still 
tried  to  catch  Fanutza's  eye.  It  was  already  too 
dark. 

"Not  to  me."  The  Tartar's  words  echoed  in 
the  girl's  heart.  "Not  to  me."  Twenty  years  he 
had  worked  to  save  such  a  great  sum.  And  now 
he  refused  an  equal  amount  and  was  willing  to 
pay  it  all  for  her.  Would  Stan  have  done  that? 


FANUTZA  153 

Would  anybody  else  have  done  that?  Why 
should  she  be  compelled  to  marry  whom  her 
father  chose  when  men  were  willing  to  pay  a  hun- 
dred gold  pieces  for  her?  The  old  women  of  the 
camp  had  taught  her  to  cook  and  to  mend  and  to 
wash  and  to  weave.  She  must  know  all  that  to  be 
worthy  of  Stan,  they  had  told  her.  And  here 
was  a  man  who  did  not  know  whether  she  knew 
any  of  these  things,  who  staked  his  life  for  her 
and  offered  a  hundred  gold  pieces  in  the  bar- 
gain! Twenty  years  of  savings.  Twenty  years 
of  work.  It  was  not  every  day  one  met  such  a 
man.  Surely,  with  one  strong  push  of  his  arms 
he  could  throw  her  father  overboard.  He  did  not 
do  it  because  he  did  not  want  to  hurt  her  feel- 
ings. And  as  the  silence  continued  Fanutza 
thought  her  father,  too,  was  a  fine  man.  It  was 
fine  of  him  to  offer  a  hundred  gold  pieces  for 
her  liberty.  That  was  in  itself  a  great  thing. 
But  did  he  do  it  only  for  her  sake  or  was  it 
because  of  Stan,  because  of  himself?  And  as 
she  thought  again  of  Mehmet's  "Not  to  me," 
she  remembered  the  fierce  bitterness  in  her 
father's  voice  when  he  had  yelled,  "All  women 
are  alike."  That  was  not  true.  If  it  were  true 
why  would  Mehmet  Ali  want  her  and  her  only 
after  having  seen  her  only  once?  Then,  too,  all 
men  must  be  alike!  It  was  not  so  at  all !  Why! 
Mehmet  Ali  was  not  at  all  like  Stan.  And  he 
offered  a  hundred  pieces  of  gold.  No.  Stan 


154.  FANUTZA 

was  of  the  kind  who  think  all  women  are  alike. 
That  was  it.  All  her  people  were  thinking  all 
women  were  alike.  That  was  it.  Surely  all  the 
men  in  the  tribe  were  alike  in  that.  All  her 
father  had  ever  been  to  her,  his  kindness,  his  love 
was  wiped  away  when  he  said  those  few  words. 
The  last  few  words  of  Mehmet  Ali,  "Not  to  me," 
were  the  sweetest  music  she  had  ever  heard. 

Marcu  waited  until  it  was  dark  enough  for  the 
Tartar  not  to  see,  when,  pressing  significantly 
his  daughter's  foot,  he  said: 

"So  be  it  as  you  said.    Row  us  across." 

"It  is  not  one  minute  too  soon,"  Mehmet  an- 
swered. "Only  a  short  distance  from  here,  where 
the  river  splits  in  three  forks,  is  a  great  rock. 
Shake  hands.  Here.  Now  here  is  one  oar. 
Pull  as  I  count,  Bir,  icki,  outch,  dort.  Again, 
Birf  ickij  outch,  dort.  Lift  your  oar.  Pull  again. 
Two  counts  only.  Bir,  icki.  So,  now  we  row 
nearer  to  the  shore.  See  that  light  there?  Row 
towards  it.  Good.  Marcu,  your  arm  is  still 
strong  and  steady  and  you  can  drive  a  good 
bargain." 

Again  and  again  the  gypsy  pressed  the  foot  of 
his  daughter  as  he  bent  over  the  oar.  She  should 
know,  of  course,  that  he  never  intended  to  keep 
his  end  of  the  bargain.  He  gave  in  only  when 
he  saw  that  the  Tartar  meant  to  wreck  them  all 
on  the  rocks  ahead  of  them.  Why  had  he,  old 
and  experienced  as  he  was,  having  dealt  with 


FANUTZA  155 

those  devils  of  Tartars  for  so  many  years,  not 
known  better  than  to  return  to  the  boat  after  he 
had  heard  Mehmet  say,  "It  is  not  fair!"  And 
after  he  had  reflected  on  the  Tartar's  words, 
why,  after  he  had  refused  to  buy  all  the  silks  and 
linens  on  that  reflection,  not  a  very  clear  one  at 
first,  why  had  he  not  told  Mehmet  to  row  across 
alone  and  deliver  the  fodder  and  food.  He  could 
have  passed  the  night  in  Anastasidis's  inn  and 
hired  another  boat  the  following  morning  if  the 
river  had  not  frozen  meanwhile!  He  should 
have  known,  he  who  knew  these  passionate  beasts 
so  well.  It  was  all  the  same  with  them;  whether 
they  set  their  eyes  on  a  horse  that  captured  their 
fancy  or  a  woman.  They  were  willing  to  kill 
or  be  killed  in  the  fight  for  what  they  wanted.  A 
hundred  gold  pieces  for  a  woman!  Twenty 
years'  work  for  a  woman! 

The  two  men  rowed  in  silence,  each  one  plan- 
ning how  to  outwit  the  other  and  each  one  know- 
ing that  the  other  was  planning  likewise.  Ac- 
cording to  Tartar  ethics  the  bargain  was  a  bar- 
gain. When  the  boat  had  been  pulled  out  of 
danger  Mehmet  hastened  to  fulfill  his  end.  With 
one  jerk  he  loosened  a  heavy  belt  underneath  his 
coat  and  pulled  out  a  leather  purse  which  he 
threw  to  Marcu.  As  he  did  so  he  met  Fanutza's 
proud  eye. 

"Here.    Count  it.    Just  one  hundred." 
"That's  good  enough,"  the  gypsy  chief  an- 


156  FANUTZA 

swered,  as  he  put  the  purse  in  his  pocket  without; 
even  looking  at  it.  "Row,  I  am  cold.  I  am 
anxious  to  be  home." 

"It  will  not  be  before  daylight,  chief,"  re- 
marked Mehmet  Ali,  as  he  bent  again  over  his 
oars  and  counted  aloud,  "Bir,  icki,  Bir,  icki/' 
An  hour  later,  Fanutza  had  fallen  asleep  on  the 
bags  of  fodder  and  was  covered  by  the  heavy  fur 
coat  of  the  Tartar.  The  two  men  rowed  the 
whole  night  upstream  against  the  current  in  the 
slushy  heavy  waters  of  the  Danube.  A  hundred 
times  floating  pieces  of  ice  had  bent  back  the  flat 
of  the  oar  Marcu  was  handling,  and  every  time 
Mehmet  had  saved  it  from  breaking  by  a  deft 
stroke  of  his  own  oar  or  by  some  other  similar 
movement.  He  was  a  waterman  and  knew  the 
ways  of  the  water  as  well  as  Marcu  himself  knew 
the  murky  roads  of  the  marshes.  The  gypsy 
could  not  help  but  admire  the  powerful  quick 
movements  of  the  Tartar  .  .  .  yet  ...  to  be 
forced  into  selling  his  daughter — that  was  an- 
other thing. 

At  daylight  they  were  within  sight  of  Meh- 
met's  hut  on  the  shore.  The  storm  had  abated. 
Standing  up  on  the  bags  of  fodder  Marcu  saw 
the  black  smoke  that  rose  from  his  camp.  His 
people  must  be  waiting  on  the  shore.  They  were 
a  dozen  men.  Mehmet  was  one  alone.  He  would 
unload  the  goods  first ;  then,  when  his  men  would 
be  near  enough,  he  would  tell  Fanutza  to  run  to- 


FANUTZA  157 

wards  them.    Let  Mehmet  come  to  take  her  if 
he  dared! 

A  violent  jerk  woke  the  gypsy  girl  from  her 
sleep.  She  looked  at  the  two  men  but  said  noth- 
ing. When  the  boat  was  moored,  the  whole  tribe 
of  gypsies,  who  had  already  mourned  their  chief 
yet  hoped  against  hope  and  watched  the  length 
of  the  shore,  surrounded  the  two  men  and  the 
woman.  There  was  a  noisy  welcome.  While 
some  of  the  men  helped  unload  the  boat  a  boy 
came  running  with  a  sleigh  cart. 

When  all  the  bags  were  loaded  on  the  sleigh 
Marcu  threw  the  heavy  purse  Mehmet  had  given 
him  to  the  Tartar's  feet  and  grabbed  the  arm  of 
his  Fanutza. 

"Here  is  your  money,  Mehmet.  I  take  my 
daughter." 

But  before  he  knew  what  had  happened,  Fa- 
nutza shook  off  his  grip  and  picking  up  the  purse 
she  threw  it  at  her  father,  saying: 

"Take  it.  Give  it  to  Stan  so  that  he  can  buy 
with  the  gold  another  woman.  To  him  all  women 
are  alike.  But  not  to  Mehmet  Ali.  So  I  shall 
stay  with  him.  A  bargain  is  a  bargain.  He 
staked  his  life  for  me." 

Marcu  knew  it  was  the  end.  "All  women  are 
alike,"  he  whined  to  Stan,  as  he  handed  him  the 
purse.  "Take  it.  All  women  are  alike,"  he  re- 
peated with  bitterness,  as  he  made  a  savage  move- 
ment towards  his  daughter. 


158  FANUTZA 

"All,  save  those  with  blood  of  Chans  in  their 
veins,"  said  Mehmet  Ali,  who  had  put  himself 
between  the  girl  and  the  whole  of  her  tribe. 
And  the  Tartar's  words  served  as  a  reminder  to 
Marcu  that  Fanutza's  own  mother  had  been  a 
white  woman  and  the  daughter  of  a  Tartar  chief. 


HAZI,  WIFE  OF  SENDER  SURTUCK 

I  CAN  still  picture  to  myself  Hazi,  Sender  Sur- 
tuck's  wife,  as  I  saw  her  more  than  twenty  years 
ago.  Sender,  the  Tartar  trader,  and  his  new 
wife  had  crossed  the  frozen  Danube  on  an  ox- 
cart laden  with  barrels  of  honey.  It  was  his 
wife's  first  trip  from  the  marshlands,  from  the 
Dobrudja  into  Rumania.  Her  husband  had 
taken  her  along  to  show  her  that  he  was  not  with- 
out friends  in  the  land  of  the  Ghiaours.  We, 
the  children  of  the  house,  watched  her  as  shev 
descended  gracefully  from  the  cart.  A  heavy 
veil  with  eyeholes  hung  over  her  face  to  hide 
her  features  from  the  sight  of  other  men.  But 
after  she  had  entered  mother's  room  she  threw 
her  veil  over  her  head  and  we  looked  at  her  while 
Sender  was  making  his  salaams  to  the  master 
of  the  house.  I  still  remember  thinking  that  I 
was  happy  to  be  considered  a  child  yet,  and  there- 
fore privileged  to  see  the  Cadima's  face.  Her 
hair  was  thick,  -black  and  lustrous.  Her  eyes 
were  big  and  of  a  deep  brown  water.  Her  mouth 
in  repose  was  like  a  perfectly  spanned  arch.  She 
was  of  a  smallish  build  but  of  perfect  proportion, 
and  she  walked  with  a  kind  of  rhythmic  glide  I 

159 


160  HAZI 

have  known  in  only  one  woman  beside  Hazi, 
Sender  Surtuck's  wife. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  and  mother,  who 
had  taken  a  fancy  to  Hazi,  insisted,  much  to  my 
delight,  that  Sender  and  his  wife  remain  in  our 
house  overnight.  Sender  protested  at  first,  say- 
ing he  had  already  made  arrangements  with  the 
chanjii,  the  innkeeper,  though  even  as  he  pro- 
tested he  helped  the  man-servant  unyoke  the  big 
white  oxen  and  asked  for  a  vase  in  which  to  draw 
some  honey  for  the  table  from  one  of  the  barrels 
standing  on  its  bottom  in  the  cart.  Surely 
Effendi  Yanco's  wife  would  permit  him  to  con- 
tribute some  sweet  gold  to  the  evening  meal ;  and 
he  was  sure  that  the  chiujiuks,  the  children, 
would  like  it.  Only  he  had  not  meant  to  intrude. 
He  was  still  strongly  minded  to  pass  the  night 
in  the  khan.  He  had  only  wanted  to  say  Sa- 
laam  Haleikam  to  his  old  friend  Effendi  Yanco. 
Yet  if  the  lady  of  the  house  wanted  to  show  such 
great  favor  to  his  cadima,  how  could  he  re- 
fuse !  Of  a  certainty  Hazi,  who  had  never  before 
been  away  from  the  marshes  of  Tartar  Baz- 
shik,  would  remember  it  as  a  great  event  to  tell 
to  her  children,  if  Allah  should  think  her  worthy 
of  his  grace,  and  they  in  turn  would  hand  on  the 
tale  to  their  children,  for  it  was  not  every  day 
that  Tartars,  poor  marshland  traders,  were 
housed  in  Effendi  Yanco's  home. 

It  was  a  long-winded  speech  delivered  with 


HAZI  161 

accompanying  gestures  and  salaams,  while  the 
honey,  as  clear  as  liquid  amber,  was  slowly  filling 
the  glass  pitcher  which  had  been  handed  to  the 
guest  from  Dobrudja. 

Afterwards  Sender  went  off  with  father  to  the 
stables.  The  two  had  much  to  tell  one  another 
for  they  were  old  friends.  Hazi  was  taken  into 
mother's  room.  It  seemed  ages  before  we  were 
called  to  dinner.  Hazi  only  lifted  the  lower  part 
of  her  veil,  up  to  her  nose,  as  she  sat  down  to  eat, 
and  she  was  as  much  embarrassed  as  she  was 
amused  by  forks  and  spoons  and  their  use.  She 
had  never  seen  such  tools  before.  She  clapped 
her  hands  noisily  when  she  saw  how  skillfully 
her  husband  used  a  fork  and  spoon.  She  had 
never  known  Sender  to  be  such  a  learned  man. 
Why!  he  used  these  tools  almost  as  well  as  Ef- 
fendi.  They  should  buy  a  few  of  them  in  the 
store  before  they  had  returned  home  across  the 
Danube. 

Sender  thought  it  well  to  excuse  his  wife's 
exuberance. 

"She  is  young.  She  has  never  been  outside 
her  home. 

"But  she  is  good  and  healthy.  She  stands  me 
two  hundred  ducats  in  gold!  She  is  the  daugh- 
ter of  an  Osmanli  with  blood  of  Chans  in  her 
veins."  But  mother  kissed  Hazi  and  said  she 
would  be  very  happy  to  have  her  near  her  every 
winter. 


162  HAZI 

"Oh,  Sender!"  Hazi  exclaimed  with  pleading 
voice. 

"Allah  forbids  to  promise.  Promise  is  Allah's 
great  privilege,"  spoke  Sender  soberly.  Yet  he 
as  good  as  meant  it  for  a  promise  and  the  two 
women  kissed  again.  They  both  understood 
guarded  speech.  After  dinner  Sender  permit- 
ted, nay,  asked  his  wife  to  dance.  As  a  baya- 
dere she  had  no  equal  on  earth,  he  assured  us  as 
he  squatted  down  on  the  rug  near  the  fireplace 
to  prepare  his  pipe.  And  then  Hazi  danced  to 
her  husband's  not  very  inspiring  song.  I  have 
since  known  only  one  woman,  I  believe,  able  to 
dance  as  gracefully.  Hazi's  limbs  moved  grace- 
fully in  harmony  with  the  movement  of  her 
torso,  which  swayed  like  a  young  birch  tree  when 
the  east  wind  is  blowing.  While  she  danced  her 
open  palms  and  long  fingers  drew  intricate 
arabesques  in  the  smoke-thick  air.  It  was  as  if 
her  limbs  and  torso  were  singing  the  song  of  the 
body.  When  the  dance  was  finished  Hazi  flitted 
with  mother  from  the  room;  marveling  at  the 
novelty  of  kerosene  lamps,  delighted  by  a  sound 
from  a  piano  and  almost  hysterical  when  she  saw 
a  sewing  machine  at  work. 

When  Sender  had  finally  joined  his  wife  in 
the  guest  room,  which  was  next  to  my  own  den, 
they  talked  away  the  greater  part  of  the  night. 
She  was  telling  him  about  all  the  things  she  had 
seen,  and  he  continually  impressed  upon  her  the 


HAZI  163 

fact  that  it  was  not  given  to  every  Tartar  to  have 
such  a  friend  as  the  Eff endi  Yanco,  who  owned 
such  marvels,  and  that  it  was  to  him  that  she 
chiefly  owed  the  great  honor  shown  her. 

"And  Sender,  you  must  buy  me  tools  to  eat 
with.  They  shall  all  marvel  at  home!" 

"I  shall  buy  you  tools  to  eat  with  and  should  I 
sell  my  honey  I'll  buy  a  candle  giving  ten  times 
more  light  than  a  wax  candle,  yet  it  is  not  a 
candle,  it  burns  with  the  aid  of  a  certain  heavy 
smelling  water  called  'kurusin.' '  Sender  Sur- 
tuck  loved  his  wife,  Hazi,  and  to  please  her  was 
even  ready  to  buy  things  made  by  the  Ghiaours. 

I  could  not  sleep.  I  could  have  murdered  the 
Tartar  for  the  happiness  that  was  his.  The  love 
that  was  his.  For  the  beautiful  bayadere  that 
was  his — lying  so  close  to  him,  talking  while  he 
snored  heavily.  He  was  a  happy  man 

Yet,  a  few  months  later,  on  an  evening  of  the 
spring  of  the  same  year,  Sender  Surtuck  killed 
Hazi  with  his  own  hands;  drove  his  short  knife 
into  her  heart  as  she  kneeled  before  him  with 
arms  raised  above  her  head  so  that  he  might  the 
more  easily  strike  the  blow.  The  story  of  her 
death  was  told  to  me  by  Kezhman  Ali,  the  old 
chiaoush  and  chalfan,  who  was  both  priest  and 
banker  to  the  people  of  Tartar  Bazshik. 

"And  the  Koran  says,  'Life  without  love  is 
like  love  without  life.'  It  is  death,  my  son.  So 
you  need  no  longer  wonder  why  Sender  Surtuck 


164.  HAZI 

married  Hazi,  so  young  and  so  beautiful,  after 
he  had  counted  in  his  life  more  than  fifty  times 
twelve  new  moons.  Sender  Surtuck  was  healthy 
and  strong  and  therefore  he  paid  the  two  hun- 
dred ducats  Hazi's  father  demanded  for  his 
daughter.  It  was  wise  of  Sender;  for  love  giveth 
to  life  new  lease  and  with  each  new  love  man 
renews  his  youth.  Hale  men  want  to  live,  there- 
fore they  love  and  seek  new  love  when  the  old 
dieth.  And  it  is  wise  that  it  happens  so  and  the 
Koran  ordains  that  it  be  so.  That  is  why  we 
Mussulmans  have  more  white-bearded  youths 
than  the  Ghiaours  have.  This  is  why  we  are 
young  to  the  grave.  Consider,  my  son.  After 
the  wedding  Sender  and  Hazi  crossed  the  Dan- 
ube and  on  coming  home  brought  from  the  other 
side  silks  and  woolen  cloth  and  eating  tools  as 
used  by  Effendis,  and  a  water-burning  candle 
that  gives  great  light,  making  night  into  day. 
And  I,  as  the  chiaousTi,  forbade  the  use  of  the 
water-burning  candle  because  it  changes  the  or- 
der of  life.  It  is  written  that  day  shall  be  day 
and  night  shall  be  ni^Vt.  That  the  sun  gives 
light  for  the  day. 

"Sender  was  in  his  hut  most  of  the  winter.  He 
had  no  trading  to  do.  The  bees  were  hibernat- 
ing. There  was  plenty  of  honey  left,  and  quar- 
ters of  lambs,  and  kummis  a-plenty.  And  as  the 
last  married  man,  Sender  was  entitled  to  all  the 
titbits  of  freshly  killed  animals;  brains  and  kid- 


HAZI  165 

neys  and  tongues.  Indeed,  it  was  a  winter  of 
pleasure  for  Sender  Surtuck.  Food  a-plenty,  a 
warm  hut  and  a  young  wife  who  was  also  a  baya- 
dere, dancing  before  him  every  day  at  eventide. 
What  more  could  a  man  want?  So  Sender  Sur- 
tuck was  happy.  But  was  she  happy?  No,  my 
son,  not  always.  Not  as  much  as  she  desired. 
For  youth  craves  youth  for  companionship. 
Youth  wants  changes.  It  is  why  we  have  four 
seasons.  Old  age  would  be  satisfied  with  only 
one  long  season.  When  youth  walks  there  is  a 
movement  from  the  foot  to  the  ankle,  from  the 
ankle  to  the  knee,  and  from  the  knee  to  the  hip. 
But  see  an  old  man  walk!  Oh!  my  son;  from  the 
hips  move  his  limbs.  Youth!  And  Sender 
would  not  let  his  wife  from  his  eyes.  She  should 
have  been  playing  with  the  young  maidens  of 
the  tribe.  There  was  Fatma  and  Rozi  and 
Stepna  and  Yahde  who  danced  and  made  merry 
and  laughed  and  sang  while  weaving  cloth  and 
spinning  wool.  And  their  laughter  echoed 
around  Hazi's  hut.  But  Sender  would  not  let 
her  go  be  merry  among  the  girls ;  for,  with  them 
were  young  men.  The  maidens  were  all  un- 
veiled and  showed  their  faces  to  the  men,  and 
their  bare  legs  as  they  danced.  And  when  the 
maidens  were  alone  there  was  talk  about  young 
men ;  praise  of  youth  and  strength  and  repeated 
talk  of  love.  Hazi  longed  to  dance  before  other 
eyes  than  Sender's,  therefore  her  own  eyes  took 


166  HAZI 

on  the  haze  of  eyes  of  men  traveling  the  seas. 

"She  looked  past  Sender's  head  when  she 
danced;  looked  through  the  walls,  and  her  ears 
trained  themselves  to  hear  the  footsteps  of  the 
young  men  going  to  the  maidens'  quarters.  She 
had  seen  them  on  only  rare  occasions.  But  she 
knew  when  broad-shouldered  Kennal  passed  by 
the  hut.  She  knew  when  Osman  sauntered  by 
and  when  Kergez  stole  up  to  Fatma's  sleeping 
quarters.  So  she  began  to  beg  of  Sender  to  let 
her  go  to  the  maidens  to  weave  cloth  for  her  hus- 
band. Her  fingers  longed  to  weave  cloth,  she 
assured  him.  And  the  kind  she  could  weave  no 
other  woman  ever  wove.  For  her  mother  had 
been  the  best  weaver.  And  the  cloth  made  for 
the  bournouz  and  pantaloons  of  her  father  and 
brothers  was  the  finest  grained  cloth  the  faithful 
ever  wore.  And  by  these  entreaties  she  obtained 
Sender's  will  to  let  her  do  as  she  pleased.  But 
before  she  had  gone  Sender  spoke  to  her  as 
follows : 

'  'I  do  let  you  go  among  the  maidens  and 
young  men.  Only  remember  the  law  of  Kur- 
guzes,  my  tribe:  "A  woman  who  has  dishonored 
her  husband's  house  is  killed  by  him  and  her  body 
is  thrown  to  the  wolves." 

'  'It  is  the  same  with  the  Osmanlis,'  she  an- 
swered. 'And  it  is  four  hundred  years  since  a 
woman  of  my  tribe  has  so  been  punished.  How 
long  is  it  since  one  of  yours  was  so  punished?' 


HAZI  167! 

Sender  did  not  answer  and  Hazi's  pride  in  her 
tribe  rose.  And  so  Hazi  went  forth  to  weave 
cloth.  There  was  no  evil  thought  in  her  mind. 
There  came  no  evil  thoughts  in  the  minds  of  the 
young  men  as  they  watched  her  dance ;  for  truly, 
they  were  Kurguzes,  each  of  them.  Even  though 
she  was  the  best  bayadere  they  had  ever  seen, 
the  men  feasted  their  eyes  on  her  beautiful  move- 
ments, considering  Sender  a  happy  man  to  have 
her,  but  were  grateful  to  him  for  letting  her 
be  amongst  them  and  were  not  envious  of  him. 

"And  amongst  the  young  men  was  one  Nazim, 
the  son  of  Mechmet  Ali.  Nazim's  mother  had 
counted  twenty  times  twelve  moons  since  she  had 
given  him  birth.  A  shy,  quiet  boy  was  Nazim. 
Tall  and  heavy  and  clumsy  he  was.  His  hair 
was  dull  and  his  eyes  had  no  glint  in  them.  He 
never  sang  when  the  other  young  men  sang  and 
when  he  spoke  his  words  were  like  a  scant  horde 
in  retreat  before  an  enemy  and  not  like  the  words 
of  the  others. 

"The  Kurguzes  are  all  smooth-tongued,  being 
traders.  Their  words  are  like  hordes  marching 
in  triumph,  close  one  to  the  other  and  swinging  in 
long  lines.  And  tellers  of  tales  they  are,  and 
singers  and  dancers.  And  the  maidens  and 
youth  all  mocked  Nazim.  And  there  was  not  one 
of  the  girls,  the  poorest  of  them,  not  even  the 
One-eyed  Ape,  that  would  have  thought  of  mar- 
rying Nazim.  Not  for  a  hundred  ducats  would 


168  HAZI 

her  father  have  sold  her  to  him  for  a  wife.  They 
thought  him  a  fool,  dull,  and  stupid;  with  no 
will,  no  mind,  no  fire.  They  mocked  and  insulted 
him.  Yet  he  never  rose  in  anger,  he  just  smiled 
sheepishly.  Though  he  was  as  strong  as  an  ox, 
when  at  work,  he  offered  no  more  resistance  than 
a  lamb  when  tussled  by  the  young  men  in  play. 
And  one  day,  when  they  had  mocked  Nazim 
overmuch,  Hazi  spoke  to  the  youths: 

"  'Why  do  you  mock  him?  Because  he  is  not 
loud-mouthed?  Because  he  is  strong  and  would 
not  use  his  strength  to  hurt  you?  It  seems  to 
me  that  if  I  were  to  have  to  choose  to-day 
amongst  you  men,  I  should  choose  no  other  man 
than  Nazim.  And  I  am  an  Osmanli.  The  men 
of  my  tribe  are  strong  and  brave  in  battle,  but 
gentle  with  their  friends  and  kin.' 

"Nazim  heard  what  she  said  and  when  he  made 
sure  that  she  did  not  say  it  in  mockery,  he  looked 
at  her.  Something  stirred  in  him  and  the  fire 
leaped  to  his  eyes  and  stayed  there.  A  few  days 
later  there  was  much  singing  in  the  weaving  hut. 
The  white  cloth  for  the  old  Hagii  was  finished. 
And  after  Hazi  had  danced  the  youths  began 
to  sing.  And  there  was  one  voice  that  rose 
higher  than  the  other  voices.  Higher  and 
rounder  and  warmer.  And  that  voice  was 
Nazim's.  So  Fatma  looked  at  the  youth  and 
saw  for  the  first  time  what  a  beautiful  mouth  he 
had.  And  then  she  looked  at  Hazi  and  saw  that 


HAZI  169 

Nazim  sang  to  her.  And  every  one  wondered 
why  Nazim  had  never  sung  before. 

"Still  a  few  days  later  there  was  a  dance  in 
which  the  young  men  danced  with  the  maidens. 
Fatma  danced  with  Nazim  and  felt  the  warm 
glow  of  his  body  and  the  hot  flush  of  his  cheek 
as  his  feet  moved  smoothly  and  swiftly.  She 
spoke  to  him  as  they  danced  and  his  words  flowed 
slowly  but  steadily  in  answer.  And  there  was 
wisdom,  tempered  by  beauty  of  speech.  After 
the  dance  there  was  wrestling.  Nazim's  strength 
showed  itself.  He  used  only  half  of  it  to  best  the 
strongest  youths. 

"So  they  began  to  ask  one  another:  'What  has 
happened  with  Nazim?'  For  lo!  in  less  than  a 
moon  his  dull  hair  was  as  shiny  as  anyone's. 
His  eyes  had  a  glint,  his  cheeks  color,  his  mouth 
freshness  and  his  voice  was  so  beautiful  and 
strong!  He  was  still  shy.  But  it  was  the  shy- 
ness of  strength ;  the  shyness  of  a  man  afraid  to 
use  his  strength  lest  it  kill.  And  with  the  steady 
flow  of  words  also  came  a  steady  gait  in  his 
lower  limbs.  And  his  arms  no  longer  hung  limply 
at  his  sides  when  he  spoke  to  people.  And  the 
maidens  vied  with  each  other  to  please  him,  but 
he  had  eyes  only  for  Hazi.  He  took  her  home 
evenings  to  Sender's  hut  and  even  came  to  call 
for  her  and  went  with  her  to  the  youths'  quar- 
ters. Sender  doubted  nothing.  Why  should  he? 
For  would  it  not  be  beneath  him  to  suspect  a 


170  HAZI 

woman  of  the  Osmanlis  ?  And  was  it  not  known 
that  Nazim  was  only  half-witted?  The  news  of 
the  change  in  the  boy  had  not  yet  reached  the 
older  people. 

"And  as  Nazim  walked  near  Hazi  his  mind 
unfolded  as  unfolds  a  flower  in  warm  rain  after 
a  dry  spell.  Truly,  it  was  as  if  she  were  a  sec- 
ond mother,  the  one  giving  birth  to  his  soul.  The 
first  one  had  given  the  shell  of  the  boy  from  her 
flesh:  and  now,  that  other  one  was  filling  the 
shell  with  all  that  was  beautiful  within  her.  Or 
better  still,  it  was  like  a  master  potter  taking 
over  an  ill-shaped  vase  of  soft  clay  and  fashion- 
ing it  anew.  And  Hazi  took  great  pleasure  in 
what  she  was  doing.  For  Allah  had  given  her 
a  clear  mind  and  a  good  heart.  She  did  not  know 
what  was  slowly  coming  into  her  blood,  what 
was  echoing  in  it.  She  did  not  know  that  she 
herself  was  growing  more  beautiful  and  wiser  as 
she  gave  wisdom  and  beauty.  For  wisdom  is 
like  a  water  spring;  the  more  you  draw  from 
the  clearer  it  runs. 

"The  maidens'  eyes  opened  to  Nazim's  awaken- 
ing ;  they  vied  with  each  other  to  please  him.  And 
Fatma,  who  had  mocked  the  boy  more  frequently 
than  any  other  of  the  girls,  was  now  the  one 
employing  all  her  arts  to  captivate  him.  And  all 
the  other  youths  were  now  as  nothing  compared 
to  Nazim.  For,  was  he  not  stronger  and  more 
beautiful  and  wiser  than  all  of  them!  And  did 


is 
it, 


HAZI  171 

not  his  voice  rise  like  the  waves  when  the  tide 
comes  in? 

"Nazim  loved  Hazi.  But  with  a  different 
love  from  that  which  Fatma  awakened  in  his 
breast.  For  he  was  a  Kurguz  and  could  not  even 
think  of  helping  a  woman  to  dishonor  her  hus- 
band's house.  And  so  one  day  when  he  was 
walking  with  Hazi  he  told  her.  'I  love  Fatma. 
Yesternight  I  took  the  moon  as  witness  that  I 
am  to  marry  her.  She  loves  me,  Fatma,  she  loves 
me.' 

"Listening  to  his  words,  Hazi's  feet  grew 
heavy.  Her  chest  began  to  heave  and  her  head 
to  swim.  Her  arms  ached  and  her  limbs  pained 
and  her  mouth  suddenly  became  like  a  chimney 
through  which  flames  were  rising  to  the  heavens. 
She  gave  a  cry  and  fainted.  She  herself  had  not 
known  before  what  she  felt  for  the  boy.  It  was 
only  when  he  had  told  her  that  he  was  to  marry 
another  woman  that  she  realized  the  love  that 
was  in  her  heart.  Yet  it  did  not  come  clearly  to 
her.  It  did  not  happen  in  the  guise  of  sin.  She 
only  felt  like  one  who  had  prepared  the  best  food, 
had  served  it  to  the  table,  and  was  forbidden  to 
eat  it — yet  had  to  watch  the  others  eat. 

"For  three  days  and  three  nights  she  was 
unconscious.  And  her  husband  sitting  at  her 
bedside  could  not  string  together  the  words  she 
said  while  in  high  fever.  The  hojea  was  called. 
He  gave  her  drinks  of  boiled  herbs  and  roots. 


172  HAZI 

But  they  helped  not.  Then,  early  on  the  fourth 
day  Nazim  entered  the  hut.  Sender  allowed  him 
to  go  to  her  bedside  even  while  her  face  was 
uncovered.  For  he  thought  nothing  of  Nazim. 
It  was  as  if  Nazim  were  not  a  man  at  all.  He 
was  so  childish.  It  was  the  first  time  Nazim  had 
seen  Hazi's  face.  Pale  and  feverish  as  it  was,  it 
was  more  beautiful  than  Fatma's.  And  by  that 
time  he  also  understood  why  Sender's  wife  had 
swooned.  But  Nazim  was  a  Kurguz.  She  was 
another  man's  wife. 

"  'Hazi,'  the  boy  spoke,  as  he  sat  down  near 
the  bed,  'I,  Nazim,  have  come  to  see  you.'  Hazi 
opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him.  Then  under- 
standing came  to  her  and  she  smiled  as  she  said: 

'  'It  is  well  you  did.  I  waited  for  you.  I 
should  have  died  if  you  had  not  come.  But  now, 
I  shall  be  well  again.  And  when  you  marry 
Fatma  I  shall  dance  my  best,  if  it  so  please  you.' 

It  was  only  then  that  Sender  heard  about 
Nazim's  promise  to  Fatma  and  he  wondered  that 
so  beautiful  a  girl  should  want  to  marry  so 
stupid  a  boy.  Yet  very  soon  he,  too,  like  the 
others,  learned  about  Nazim's  wonderful  unfold- 
ing. Every  one  spoke  about  the  miracle.  It  was 
as  clear  as  day  that  the  prophet  had  kissed  the 
boy's  brow  in  his  sleep. 

"Hazi  ceased  to  weave  cloth  and  kept  to  her 
hut.  When  pain  and  longing  overcame  her  she 
prayed  and  fasted  and  begged  Allah  to  take  her 


HAZI  173 

to  himself.  When  Sender  was  not  in  the  hut 
she  cried  and  sobbed  and  called  out  Nazim's 
name  aloud.  'Nazim,  my  Nazim.' 

"After  awhile  news  came  to  Hazi  that  the 
wedding  between  Fatma  and  Nazim  was  set  for 
the  second  moon  after  the  snow  should  have  been 
melted  and  drunk  by  the  soil.  At  times  she 
rushed  out  to  the  door  of  the  hut  and  made  to  go 
to  meet  Nazim  and  tell  him  that  it  could  not  be. 
But  the  teaching  of  her  mother,  of  her  faith,  for- 
bade her  feet  to  go  farther.  She  was  Sender's 
wife.  She  then  felt  remorse,  and  because  of  that 
she  overwhelmed  Sender  with  greater  love  and 
gave  him  more  frequent  caresses:  to  drown  her 
passion  for  the  one  she  loved  in  the  flesh  of  him 
for  whom  she  had  no  love.  Yet  every  time  she 
did  so  she  rose  in  the  morning  with  a  feeling  of 
having  committed  a  greater  sin  than  adultery. 
For  she  sinned  doubly.  Sinned  in  her  mind,  and 
in  her  flesh.  The  caresses  she  gave  her  husband 
were  meant  for  Nazim. 

"The  snow  began  to  melt,  the  days  lengthened. 
The  howls  of  the  wolves  became  more  distant 
every  night.  The  ice  on  the  river  melted  and  the 
birds  began  to  flit  in  the  naked  trees  for  worms 
and  grub  between  the  folds  of  the  bark. 

"Neither  was  Nazim  happy.  His  wisdom  had 
brought  too  much  sadness  in  his  life.  He  knew 
why  Hazi  never  went  anywhere  and  he  longed  to 
see  her.  And  he,  too,  prayed  and  cried.  But  he 


174,  HAZI 

was  a  Kurguz.  Another  man's  wife  is  another 
man's  wife,  and  a  promise  is  a  promise.  'For  it 
is  better  not  to  save  a  man  from  death  than  to 
break  a  promise  to  a  faithful  one,'  says  the 
Koran. 

"Then,  one  evening,  when  Sender  had  again 
gone  away  to  sell  his  honey,  Hazi  waited  for 
Nazim  to  come  out  from  the  maidens'  quarter. 
She  wanted  only  to  see  him.  But  when  she  saw 
him  she  could  no  longer  hold  out  against  her  love 
and  throwing  her  arms  around  his  neck  she  cried : 

'  'Nazim,  come,  let  us  run  away  to  the  land  of 
the  Ghiaours  where  we  could  be  happy.' 

"Nazim  drew  his  head  from  the  noose  of  her 
coiled  arms  and  spoke  gently  but  firmly  even 
while  his  great  body  shook  with  fear  lest  his  pas- 
sion be  stronger  than  his  faith. 

'  'It  could  not  be,  Hazi.  You  are  another 
man's  wife.' 

"But  she  would  not  hear  of  it.  Fidelity,  faith, 
teaching,  training,  had  been  melted  by  love  as 
snow  is  melted  by  the  sun.  She  had  him  come  to 
her  hut,  and  there,  in  the  dark,  she  threw  her 
arms  again  around  the  boy's  neck  and  kissed 
him;  burned  his  cheeks  with  her  hot  lips. 
'Nazim,'  she  cried,  'you  must  be  mine.'  But 
Nazim  was  a  Kurguz. 

"  'You  are  another  man's  wife,'  he  said,  as  he 
pinned  her  arms  to  her  sides:  'Allah  has  given 
me  wisdom  to  use  for  his  praise  and  not  to  dis- 


HAZI  175 

honor  my  kin.  And  if  Allah  has  willed  that  I 
suffer  because  of  that,  it  is  Allah's  will  and  not 
mine  that  I  must  follow.' 

"'Allah!  Allah!'  Hazi  answered.  'Nazim! 
Nazim !  Have  I  brought  luster  to  your  hair  that 
another  woman  should  play  with  it?  Have  I 
brought  fire  into  your  eyes  that  another  woman 
should  feast  on  them?  Have  I  tuned  the  chords 
of  your  voice  for  another  woman  to  hear?  Have 
I  brought  warmth  to  your  limbs  that  another 
woman  should  feel  their  touch?  And  whatever 
other  women  now  love  in  you,  it  is  I  that  have 
given  it,  and  I  call  it  mine.  And  wisdom  has 
come  to  me  that  Allah  himself  thinks  it  sinful  to 
give  caresses  to  other  than  the  one  you  love.  And 
I  love  you,  Nazim.  Let  go  of  my  arms  that  I 
may  touch  you. 

"  'I  have  promised  Fatma.' 

'  'Never,  never  will  you  be  Fatma's  man. 
Nazim,  never.  It  is  me  you  love,  not  Fatma. 
It  is  sinful  to  marry  her.  I  shall  not  live  to  see 
you  marry  her.  And  you  shall  not  marry  her 
after  my  death.' 

"Till  late  in  the  night  the  two  sat  together  and 
talked,  but  when  Nazim  left  the  hut  his  faith  had 
been  stronger  than  her  love  and  his  own  passion. 
He  went  to  his  hut  with  her  last  words  ringing 
in  his  ears.  'Nazim  you  shall  never  wed  Fatma 
while  I  am  alive.  And  you  will  not  wed  her  after 
my  death.  For  my  love  to  you  is  stronger  than 


176  HAZI 

my  faith  and  my  life  and  the  oath  I  swore  to  my 
husband  and  the  teaching  of  my  mother.' 

"The  snow  melted  rapidly.  The  women  were 
now  ready  with  Fatma's  wedding  dresses.  The 
maidens  were  merrier  than  ever.  Their  quar- 
ters were  gay  from  sunrise  to  late  in  the  night. 
The  bees  began  to  stir  in  the  combs,  and  the 
mares  dropped  their  colts,  the  ewes  their  lambs, 
and  frogs  were  heard  croaking  in  the  pools. 

"Two  more  weeks  to  the  wedding  of  Fatma 
to  Nazim.  One  more  week  to  the  wedding  of 
Fatma  to  Nazim.  Two  more  days.  The  hoja 
has  been  brought  from  Cerna  Voda.  The  horses 
are  being  trained  for  the  races  and  stunts.  The 
women  watch  Fatma  day  and  night.  They  teach 
her  what  the  prophet  has  ordained  a  bride  must 
know.  She  must  sit  for  hours  and  untie  com- 
plicated knots  and  disentangle  thread  without 
breaking  it.  She  is  taught  patience  and  submis- 
sion ;  the  two  great  virtues  of  a  wife,  next  to  fidel- 
ity. She  is  taught  to  smile  and  laugh  when  in 
pain.  She  is  taught  to  listen  without  answering. 
For  it  is  no  little  thing  to  be  a  wife !  To  be  both 
useful  and  sweet.  To  be  like  milk:  to  nourish 
even  when  curdled  by  time  and  warmth. 

"The  day  of  the  wedding  Hazi  sought  out 
Nazim  and  spoke  to  him  again: 

'  'Nazim,'  she  said,  'I  cannot  bear  the  thought 
of  giving  you  away  to  another  woman.  I  can- 
not bear  the  thought  of  another  woman's  bare 


HAZI  177 

arms  around  your  neck,  of  another  woman's  lips 
on  the  lips  to  which  I  have  given  life.  Those 
thoughts  are  like  dull  knives  cutting  my  flesh  un- 
derneath the  skin.  Nazim,  there  is  still  time. 
The  anger  of  Sender,  the  hatred  of  the  whole 
tribe,  the  shame  of  Fatma,  even  the  blasphemy 
of  the  hoja  and  death  are  nothing  to  me.  Come, 
let  us  run  away.  And  if  the  men  overtake  us  we 
shall  both  die,  if  Allah  so  wills.  But  I  cannot 
bear  the  thought  of  your  being  another  woman's 
husband,  and  I  can  no  longer  be  Sender's  wife. 
With  you  rests  my  life  or  my  death.  Speak!" 

"For  a  long  while  he  looked  at  her  (she  had 
thrown  her  veil  overhead),  saw  that  her  cheeks 
were  sunken  and  pale,  that  her  eyes  were  red 
from  much  crying  and  little  sleep ;  that  her  arms 
had  lost  their  roundness,  and  her  fingers  no  longer 
kept  together,  but  twitched  and  coiled  one  over 
the  other  as  twitches  and  curls  flesh  over  open 
fire.  And  his  own  heart  battled  against  his  mind ; 
against  the  wisdom  she  had  given  him  and  which 
she  now  asked  him  to  betray.  Then  tears  came 
to  his  eyes  as  he  said : 

"  'It  cannot  be,  Hazi.  It  cannot  be.  I  am  to 
wed  Fatma  to-night.' 

'You  will  not!'  she  cried,  beating  his  chest 
with  her  two  fists.  He  let  her  do  as  she  pleased. 
He  would  have  let  her  drive  knives  through  his 
heart  if  she  so  wanted.  All  of  a  sudden  she 


178  HAZI 

ceased.  She  became  quiet  and  cold,  looked  at 
him  for  a  while,  then  she  begged : 

"  'Kiss  me.  Oh  Nazim !  Kiss  me  on  my  mouth 
only  once.  The  first  and  the  last  time.  The  last 
time  lips  shall  ever  touch  mine.  Kiss  me, 
Nazim/ 

"He  ran  away  without  turning  his  head.  A 
woman  is  a  woman.  Faith  and  teaching  are 
nothing  to  a  woman  when  she  loves.  Love  is  her 
faith.  But  Nazim  was  a  Kurguz,  a  man. 

"The  night  of  the  wedding.  The  earth  was  dry 
and  warm.  There  was  a  large  circle  of  small  fires 
around  which  sat  the  maidens  and  the  youths. 
Within  the  circle,  in  the  center,  sat  the  white 
bearded  hoja,  in  new  white  vestments,  and 
around  him  the  people  of  the  tribe.  The  men  on 
one  side  and  the  women  on  the  other.  To  the 
right  of  the  holy  man  sat  Nazim  and  to  the  left 
Fatma,  dressed  in  silks.  A  white  veil  pinned  to 
her  hair  was  ready  to  be  thrown  over  her  face. 
After  the  evening  prayers,  I,  as  the  chiaoush, 
read  the  marriage  contract.  Six  horses  and  four 
hundred  ducats  in  gold  Nazim's  father  has  asked 
to  be  written  in  as  price  to  Fatma's  father  for  a 
wife  to  his  son. 

"After  I  was  through  reading  the  hoja  stood 
up  and  said  so  that  everybody  should  hear : 

'  'Is  there  anybody  here  who  should  not  be 
here?  Whose  heart  is  full  of  anger,  whose  mind 
harbors  evil  thoughts?  Speak.  Thrice  shall  I 


HAZI  179 

ask  the  same  thing  before  pronouncing  Nazim 
and  Fatma  man  and  wife.  Before  taking  the 
moon  as  witness.  The  moon  and  the  stars,  the 
children  of  the  prophets.  Is  there  anybody  here 
who  should  not  be  here?' 

'  'I,'  shouted  Hazi,  'for  I  have  dishonored  my 
husband's  house  and  I  am  ready  to  pay  for  the 
sin  with  my  life.' 

"Even  the  fire  ceased  cracking  when  the  hoja 
sat  down  and  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands. 
The  others  did  likewise.  Hazi  rose  from  her 
place  and  walked  slowly  to  her  hut  followed  by 
Sender  Surtuck.  We  held  our  breath  until  we 
heard  a  loud  scream  from  there.  May  Allah  be 
merciful  to  her  soul. 

"And  then  we  turned  around.    . 

Nazim  was  dead.  He  died  without  a  sound, 
slain  by  Fatma's  swift  hand. 

"Hazi  was  still  alive.  So  before  dying  Hazi 
told  the  truth  to  her  husband  and  to  the  hoja; 
that  she  wanted  to  die  that  her  death  be  a  bar  to 
Nazim's  wedding. 

"So  if  you  ever  meet  Sender  Surtuck,  for  he  is 
wandering  aimlessly  from  place  to  place,  talk 
kindly  to  him,  my  son.  Don't  look  upon  him  as 
a  murderer.  For  though  Hazi  had  never  sinned 
in  the  flesh,  her  sin  was  still  a  very  great  one. 
May  Allah  be  kind  to  her  soul,  and  forgive  that 
her  love  was  more  to  her  than  her  life,  which  was 


180  HAZI 

his,  Allah's,  the  only  one,  and  Mahomet's,  who 
is  his  only  prophet. 

"And  ever  since  that  night  young  lambs  are 
born  dead,  the  cattle  grow  lame,  and  mothers' 
breasts  are  dry.  And  there  is  no  joy  in  our 
tribe.  There  is  no  song  in  our  youths.  And  the 
men  are  slow  at  trading. 

"And  if  a  trader  be  dumb  his  horse  is  lame,  but 
if  the  trader  be  smooth  of  tongue  the  lame  horse  is 
clean  of  limbs  and  the  blind  horse  sees.  And 
there  must  be  joy  in  selling  if  it  be  to  bring  profit. 
But  selling  what  is  yours  to  buy  food  with  gives 
no  joy,  and  therefore  the  speech  is  slow.  ...  It 
is  like  showing  the  speed  of  a  horse  with  reins 
checked  short.  Consider,  my  son.  If  you  ever 
meet  Sender  Surtuck.  .  .  ." 

And  Kezhman  Ali,  the  chiaoush  and  chalfan, 
the  priest  and  banker  of  Tartar  Bazhik,  wept. 


THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER 

COSTA,  the  bear-tamer,  was  well  known  all 
along  the  Carpathian  Mountains;  on  the  Hun- 
garian side  of  the  chain  of  mountains  as  well  as 
on  the  Rumanian  side.  Of  the  hundreds  of  gyp- 
sies, roving  to  and  fro  between  the  villages,  danc- 
ing their  bears  before  inns  and  on  the  market- 
places, more  than  half  bought  their  bears  from 
Costa. 

A  bear  tamed  by  Costa  was  worth  a  fortune. 
It  could  dance  on  all  fours  and  waltz  on  its  hind 
legs  to  the  sound  of  a  tambourine  or  the  music  of 
a  flute,  it  turned  somersaults,  could  stand  on 
its  head,  roll  a  log  or  an  empty  barrel,  stand  at 
attention  and  do  a  thousand  other  cute  things  to 
amuse  children  and  grown-ups. 

And  Costa  was  continually  inventing  new 
tricks  for  his  bears.  He  could  teach  them  any- 
thing he  wanted.  Once  in  Costa's  hands  a  bear 
was  not  let  go  until  it  was  an  accomplished  artist 
and  could  be  relied  upon  to  do  the  bidding  of  its 
master. 

Costa  had  his  establishment  in  a  gully  deep 
down  between  two  mountains.  In  the  winter,  the 
cold  Carpathian  winter,  in  large  holes  he  had  dug 

181 


182  THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER 

out  in  the  mountainsides,  and  from  early  spring 
to  late  in  the  fall  in  small  tents  that  were  pitched 
between  the  tall  sun-hungry  trees,  Costa  lived 
with  his  daughter  Margarita. 

In  a  cranny  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  was 
the  school.  There,  Costa,  all  alone,  surrounded 
only  by  huge  brown  bears,  man-eating  beasts 
caught  only  yesterday,  plied  his  trade. 

It  was  Costa's  custom  to  leave  his  gully  early 
every  spring  as  soon  as  the  snow  began  to  melt, 
to  go  in  search  of  bears.  With  a  large  loaf  of 
black  bread  and  a  piece  of  cheese  in  a  carpet-bag, 
a  bottle  of  whisky  in  the  long  upper  of  one  of  his 
boots,  a  sharp  knife  in  the  other,  a  well-oiled 
army  revolver  in  his  wide  red  belt,  a  rope,  a  few 
short  chains,  the  links  of  which  he  had  himself 
forged  during  the  long  winter  months,  the 
pointed  black  fur  cap  'way  down  over  his  bushy 
brows,  Costa  was  off  among  the  mountains  in 
search  of  bears. 

Sometimes,  when  in  luck,  he  returned  the  same 
day  or  the  same  night  dragging  at  the  end  of  the 
rope  a  huge  she-bear  not  yet  completely  awak- 
ened from  her  winter  sleep,  and  a  little  cub  or 
two,  hind  paws  tied  to  hind  paws,  slung  on  his 
shoulders.  At  other  times  Costa  was  away  for 
days  and  weeks. 

He  never  came  home  empty-handed  and,  in- 
deed, it  was  a  bad  week  when  the  heavily  bearded, 


THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER  183 

tall  black-eyed  gypsy  did  not  sell  at  least  one 
fresh  bearskin  to  some  inn-keeper. 

But  Costa  was  not  much  interested  in  killing 
bears.  He  needed  them  alive.  He  knew  every 
inch  of  the  Carpathian  Mountains  and  knew 
every  bear  hole.  He  had  a  thousand  different 
tricks  for  catching  a  bear  alive. 

If  there  were  no  tracks  about  the  bear's  winter 
home  Costa  would  empty  half  his  flask  of  whisky 
in  an  earthen  dish  and  place  it  at  one  of  the  two 
exit-places  a  she-bear  generally  makes  before  go- 
ing to  hibernate.  Then  he  would  gather  a  few 
sticks,  set  them  on  fire,  sprinkle  them  with  sul- 
phur, place  them  near  the  other  exit  and  with- 
draw to  observe  developments. 

If  the  bear  was  beginning  to  awaken  from  her 
long  sleep  the  smoke  and  the  odor  of  sulphur 
would  have  its  effect.  The  beast  would  soon 
come  upon  the  bowl  filled  with  alcohol,  turn 
around  it,  smell  it,  taste  it  and  finish  by  lapping 
it  dry. 

A  while  later  Costa  would  creep  in  on  all  fours, 
knife  between  his  teeth,  pistol  in  one  hand  and 
ready  rope-noose  in  the  other.  If  his  calcula- 
tions had  not  gone  amiss,  if  the  whisky  had  been 
of  the  right  kind,  Costa  was  soon  dragging  a  bear 
behind  the  rope. 

But  that  was  only  one  of  a  thousand  ways  of 
catching  a  bear  alive.  The  real  manner  was  de- 
termined according  to  conditions,  whims  and  in- 


184  THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER 

stinct.  After  catching  a  dozen  bears  or  so,  the 
schooling  would  begin.  No  matter  how  a  freshly 
caught  bear  tugged  at  the  chain  when  any  one 
approached  it,  when  Costa  came  near  the  beast  it 
would  cringe  and  whine.  In  a  week  at  the  most 
the  fiercest  bear  was  tamed. 

He  would  take  the  beast  to  the  ccanny,  to  the 
"private  school,"  as  he  called  the  fissure  in  the 
mountains,  and  in  a  day  or  two  Master  Bruin  was 
glad  to  do  any  trick  demanded  of  him  if  only  he 
had  not  to  face  again  the  man  who  had  caught 
him. 

Such  was  Costa.  But  once  a  bear  was  tamed 
he  lost  all  interest  in  the  animal,  hated  him,  spat 
at  him  when  he  passed  the  tree  to  which  the  beast 
was  chained.  And  during  the  long  winter 
nights  he  would  tell  stories  to  the  pipe-smoking 
peasants  at  the  inn,  stories  of  other  days,  when 
bears  were  really  fierce  beasts,  when  it  took  weeks 
of  cunning  to  get  them  and  months  to  tame  them 
and  when  every  bear-dancer  caught  and  tamed  his 
own  bear,  when  the  bears  in  the  Carpathians 
were  bears  and  men  were  men  and  not  as  they  are 
now,  when  bears  are  tame  kittens  and  men  are  old 
women. 

And  it  so  happened  that  none  of  Costa's  own 
sons  was  worthy  of  his  father.  They  could  teach 
fine  enough  tricks  to  the  bears  after  they  were 
tamed  by  the  old  man;  they  could  drive  a  good 
bargain  with  another  gypsy  coming  to  buy  a 


THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER  185 

bear;  but  they  did  not  have  the  nose,  could  not 
scent  a  bear's  hole  and  never  dared  what  their 
father  dared.  In  time  they  all  left  their  father 
and  settled  each  in  a  separate  gully  to  ply  his 
trade  of  bear-tamer. 

Costa  would  have  despaired  of  life  altogether 
because  of  his  offspring  had  it  not  been  for  his 
only  daughter,  whom  he  had  by  one  of  his  wives, 
a  clean-limbed  almost  wild  woman,  half  Tartar 
and  half  Cherkez.  He  had  bought  her  from  a 
horse-selling  gypsy  chief  and  she  had  died  when 
her  daughter  was  yet  very  young.  And  that 
daughter  of  his,  Margarita,  with  the  straight 
clean  limbs  of  her  mother  and  the  sharp,  angular, 
almost  Egyptian  features  of  her  father,  was  Cos- 
ta's  pride. 

She  was  too  young  to  go  a-hunting  like  her 
father,  or  accompany  him,  but  she  could  tame  a 
mature  bear  almost  as  quickly  and  thoroughly 
as  he  could.  She  had  started  with  the  cubs  her 
father  brought  when  she  was  not  yet  eight  years 
old.  When  she  was  ten,  cubs,  grown  to  be  bears 
on  a  chain  in  the  gully,  were  disgustingly  easy  for 
her,  and  even'  some  of  the  beasts  her  father 
brought  dragging  at  the  end  of  a  rope  were  un- 
worthy of  her  attention,  unless  they  were  of  the 
propei  kind,  fierce  and  full  of  fight. 

Then,  oh  then,  life  held  some  charms! 


186  THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER 

"Come,  Margarita,"  her  father  would  call  to 
her.  "This  looks  like  a  real  one." 

Bare-legged,  disheveled,  the  gypsy  girl  would 
face  the  animal,  cowhide  whip  in  her  bare  brown 
arm,  and  try  him.  And  if  he  showed  fight  she 
danced  for  joy,  she  hugged  and  kissed  her  father, 
tore  at  his  mustache  and  bit  hair  from  his  beard. 

"Tatuca,  tatuca,  it's  a  real  one  this  time!" 

And  for  days  and  days,  from  early  morning  to 
late  at  night,  it  mattered  not  whether  a  dozen 
wild-eyed  buyers  clamored  to  see  the  chief,  or  it 
snowed,  or  brother  fought  brother  with  knives 
and  whips,  father  and  daughter  remained  with 
the  real  one  in  the  private  school. 

They  emerged  only  when  the  work  was  done. 
Thinner,  with  eyes  sparkling,  arms  and  legs 
scarred  and  with  pride  in  work  accomplished, 
father  or  daughter  would  call  to  one  of  the  would- 
be  buyers: 

"Take  him  out  and  give  him  some  water.  He 
will  eat  out  of  your  hands." 

And  he  would.  The  sight  of  any  two-legged 
animal  was  enough  to  drive  fear  into  any  gradu- 
ate from  the  private  school  of  Costa  and  kis 
daughter. 

Then  the  father  would  say  to  Margarita: 

"That  was  yours."    Or,  "It  was  mine." 

No  compliments  were  exchanged.  There  was 
no  contradiction  on  that  score.  Instinctively  each 


THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER  187 

of  them  knew  by  whom  and  when,  at  what  stroke 
of  the  whip,  the  thing  was  accomplished. 

When  Margarita  was  fourteen  years  old  it  so 
happened  that  her  father's  catches  that  spring 
had  been  only  mortaciunas,  dead  ones,  kittens. 
It  was  a  pity  to  waste  cowhide  on  them.  The 
winter  had  been  a  very  long  one  after  a  very  wet 
fall  and  the  bears  were  so  weak  from  prolonged 
hibernation  and  hunger  that  they  looked  more 
like  sheep  than  man-eating  beasts. 

Margarita  had  hoped  every  day  for  a  "real 
live  one."  But  no.  Mortaciunas  they  were, 
every  one  of  them.  While  her  father  was  away 
she  stalked,  whip  in  hand,  from  one  bear  to  the 
other,  teased  them,  hit  them,  now  gave  them 
pieces  of  raw  meat  to  awaken  their  taste  for 
blood,  lassoed  the  playful  cubs  from  their  mothers 
to  stir  their  savagery,  but  to  no  avail. 

Occasionally  some  female  would  shoot  out  a 
paw  and  give  a  tug  at  the  chain,  one  end  of  which 
was  dangling  from  a  ring  pierced  through  the 
nose.  Margarita's  hopes  would  rise  and  she 
would  scream  her  joy  in  a  dozen  endearing 
names,  yet  a  second  application  of  the  whip 
would  hardly  stir  the  bear  from  its  place. 

And  when  the  spring  came  to  a  close  and  the 
wild  bears  left  the  gullies  and  valleys  and  climbed 
the  tops  of  the  mountains  for  sheep,  deer  and 
wild  goat,  father  and  daughter  had  no  excite- 
ment. The  taming  done  and  most  of  the  bears 


188  THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER 

sold,  Costa  went  a-browsing  from  inn  to  inn, 
from  village  to  village,  drinking,  carousing,  play- 
ing cards  and  fighting  with  other  gypsies,  some- 
times on  the  Rumanian  side  of  the  mountains  and 
at  other  times  on  the  Hungarian  side,  working 
up  some  excitement  for  himself  by  outwitting  the 
frontier  guards  posted  on  either  side  of  the  Car- 
pathians. 

He  returned  home  once  in  a  while  to  inquire 
how  things  went ;  if  any  of  the  bears  needed  pri- 
vate schooling.  But  if  such  a  state  had  come  to 
pass  Margarita  had  already  attended  to  it  and 
there  was  nothing  more  to  be  done. 

Margarita  was  far  from  being  satisfied.  She 
could  have  picked  quarrels  with  her  brothers, 
who  came  occasionally  to  visit  her,  or  with  the 
husbands  of  her  half-sisters,  but  they  were  all 
"old  women,"  well-fed,  satisfied  traders.  Nor 
was  there  any  fun  in  quarreling  with  the  tziganes 
who  came  to  buy  tamed  bears.  She  threw  insults 
to  their  teeth. 

"Why  don't  you  hunt  for  your  own  bears? 
You  only  want  tame  bears  because  you  are  tame 
men  yourselves.  You  are  tame  men  yourselves." 

They  did  not  answer  her.  They  told  her  she 
had  pretty  eyes  and  beautiful  teeth,  that  her 
arms  were  round  and  brown.  Some  playfully  in- 
quired how  she  would  like  it  if  they  would  buy 
her  from  her  father.  But  that  was  all. 

"Sell  me  to  you?    Sell  me  to  you?    Sell  a  tiger 


THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER  189 

to  a  lamb?  I  would  tear  you  to  pieces.  No,  I 
would  not.  I  would  just  spit  at  you.  Like  that, 
na,  ptui" 

"Well,  no,  I  would  not  buy  you.  I  would  not 
take  you  for  a  gift,"  she  was  answered. 

"Of  course  you  would  not.  You  are  afraid.  I 
dare  you.  You  are  afraid.  You  buy  tame  bears. 
This  one  here,  I  tamed  him.  You  could  eat  from 
one  plate  with  him  now.  Or  better  buy  this  one 
here.  He  was  born  tame.  As  you  were.  His 
father  was  a  lamb  as  yours  was.  That's  the  kind 
you  want.  You  buy  them  tamed.  Even  your 
women  you  buy  tamed.  Why  don't  you  hunt  for 
them?  You  are  afraid.  You  buy  them  at  the 
end  of  a  rope.  Tied,  cowed." 

She  teased,  she  dared.  In  vain.  Men  looked 
at  her  from  the  corner  of  an  eye  but  avoided  her 
and  no  one  ever  inquired  seriously  of  her  father 
whether  she  was  for  sale  or  not. 

One  early  morning,  the  time  of  the  year  when 
leaves  were  fluttering  in  the  brumal  air,  when 
frost,  the  shadow  of  winter,  sits  on  the  fox 
grapes  and  plums,  Petrackio,  the  son  of  Ursu, 
the  bear-tamer,  entered  the  gully  where  lived 
Costa  and  his  daughter. 

Ursu,  the  bear-tamer,  was  an  old  competitor  of 
Costa's.  His  establishment  was  twenty  miles 
from  there.  The  two  bear-tamers  were  deadly 
enemies  and  it  was  known  that  if  the  two  should 


190  THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER 

ever  meet  alone  in  the  mountains,  but  one  would 
return.  That  Ursu's  son,  Petrackio,  should  ven- 
ture to  Costa's  gully  was  the  height  of  audacity. 
What  brought  him  there  was  the  fact  that  his 
father  had  been  away  for  more  than  two  weeks 
and  no  one  had  seen  him. 

Sure  that  Costa  had  killed  him,  the  boy  came 
to  avenge  his  father.  Petrackio  and  Margarita 
had  never  seen  each  other.  The  young  gypsy 
prowled  about  the  camp  for  a  little  while  with- 
out perceiving  any  one.  It  was  Sunday.  Sud- 
denly Margarita  came  out  of  the  tent,  and 
yawned  as  she  stretched  her  arms  high  over  her 
head. 

"Hey,  you !"  he  called  to  her.  "Is  your  father 
dead  or  is  he  hibernating  already?" 

"No,"  she  answered;  "he  is  milking  the  goat 
for  babies  who  have  lost  themselves  in  the  moun- 
tains." 

As  she  spoke  she  came  nearer  to  the  young 
gypsy  and  looked  him  straight  in  the  eye.  His 
was  a  new  face.  The  boy  stood  straight,  with  feet 
well  apart,  neck  bent  forward,  and  lips  drawn 
away  from  the  teeth.  Margarita  was  thrilled. 
It  was  a  "live  one,"  one  that  should  fight  the 
whole  summer.  She  had  longed  for  a  bear  who 
would  not  tame  easily  and  she  almost  ran  for 
her  whip  after  one  good  look  at  the  boy,  who 
squared  himself  before  her.  She  had  never  be- 


THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER  191 

fore  seen  a  face  that  promised  more  fight,  more 
sport,  than  that  now  before  her. 

"And  who  are  you?"  he  asked  the  girl  as  he 
returned  her  fierce  glances. 

"I  am  Costa's  daughter,"  she  answered,  with- 
out moving  an  inch. 

"And  who  are  you?  Have  you  come  to  buy 
a  tame  bear,  a  very  tame  bear?"  she  mocked,  "one 
who  dances  as  soon  as  you  say  fmartino'  like 
this,  like  that?" 

"I  want  none  of  your  puppets.  When  I  want 
a  bear  I  go  and  get  him  in  his  lair  with  my  bare 
hands,"  the  youth  answered. 

Then  after  a  while  he  continued,  narrowing 
his  eyes  as  he  spoke: 

"So  you  are  Margarita,  Costa's  daughter!  So 
you  are  Margarita!  So — so!  The  daughter  of 
that  Cherkez  woman.  So — so!  Well,  I  am 
Petrackio,  Ursu's  son.  And  I  have  come  for 
revenge.  Where  is  your  father?" 

Margarita  knew  well  what  the  trouble  was. 
She  also  knew  that  her  father  had  been  away  to 
the  Dobrudja  more  than  a  month  and  had  re- 
turned only  the  night  before.  She  could  have 
said  so  and  assured  Petrackio.  Instead  of  that 
she  laughed  loudly,  tossing  her  head  this  way 
and  that,  then  .hissing  between  her  teeth,  with 
neck  stretching  out  toward  the  boy: 

"Why  don't  you  wait  another  twenty  years, 
when  my  father  will  be  lame  and  blind,  and  fight 


192  THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER 

him!  Why,  Ursu's  son,  that  was  between  old 
men.  If  you  want  to  fight,  why  not  fight  me?" 

"You,  a  girl?" 

It  drew  fire.  In  a  flash  Margarita  was  in  her 
tent  and  back.  She  held  her  whip  in  one  hand 
when  she  returned.  Her  body  was  as  taut  as  a 
steel  spring. 

"So,  that's  what  you  think  of  me?  Not  good 
enough  to  fight  with?  I  will  show  you  who  I 
am." 

Chained  to  a  stout  tree,  not  far  from  where 
they  were,  a  huge  brown  she-bear  was  standing 
on  its  haunches  and  grunting.  Before  Petrackio 
had  known  what  had  happened  Margarita,  with 
one  tug  at  the  chain,  had  torn  the  ring  from  the 
nose  of  the  bear.  Bellowing  from  the  depths  of 
its  lungs,  the  bleeding  animal  charged  ahead, 
kicking,  pawing,  shaking  its  head  viciously  back 
and  forth  as  it  charged  the  girl  whose  only 
weapon  was  the  cowhide  whip  in  her  hand. 

When  the  bear  was  near  enough  she  let  the 
whip  fall  upon  its  head  again  and  again.  Her 
arm  worked  like  a  piston  rod.  The  bear  repeated 
its  charge  yet  the  girl  gave  no  ground,  but  kept 
on  whipping  the  beast  over  the  head  until  it  reeled 
and  retreated  to  seek  shelter  behind  its  tree. 

"Will  you  fight  me  now?"  Margarita  asked, 
turning  savagely  on  the  boy  who  had  not  moved 
from  his  place. 

"No,"  he  answered.    "I  won't  fight  a  woman." 


THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER  193 

"It  is  because  you  are  afraid.  You  want  to 
fight  an  old  man." 

"Afraid,  I?  Have  you  never  heard  of  Pe- 
trackio?  I  will  fight  a  dozen  of  your  brothers. 
The  whole  tribe  of  your  men." 

"We  have  no  men,  only  old  women;  fight  me 
if  you  dare.  Here,  I  begin,"  and  Margarita 
brought  her  whip  across  the  boy's  face. 

It  was  as  if  a  thousand  bees  had  suddenly 
stung  the  boy.  It  was  as  if  a  swiftly  turning 
wheel  had  been  set  on  fire.  Before  Margarita 
had  had  time  to  know  what  happened  her  whip 
had  been  jerked  loose  from  her  hand  and  she  was 
thrown  face  downward  in  the  dirt.  Petrackio's 
knee  was  between  her  shoulders,  holding  her 
down  as  one  holds  a  squirming,  wriggling,  sting- 
ing snake. 

Margarita  felt  the  cold  steel  blade  as  it  touched 
the  back  of  her  neck  and  thought  the  last  breath 
was  near. 

"Snake!  I  will  not  kill  you.  I  don't  kill 
women.  I  want  your  father  to  know  that  I  have 
been  here.  You  shall  tell  him.  And  lest  you  for- 
get I  shall  take  your  tresses  as  a  reminder." 

When  Margarita  rose  from  the  ground  she  felt 
the  cold  wind  on  her  bare  neck.  Petrackio  had 
cut  off  her  tresses  and  was  already  on  his  horse 
galloping  homeward  at  full  gallop.  She  looked 
after  him  and  screamed.  She  shook  her  fists  and 


194  THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER 

stamped  her  feet  and  devised  a  thousand  tortures 
for  him  and  his  father  as  soon  as  she  should  cap- 
ture them.  That  very  night  she  and  her  father 
were  to  pounce  upon  them  in  their  gully  and  drag 
them  to  the  cranny,  to  the  private  school,  and 
teach  them  to  dance.  Ah !  He  would  pay  dearly 
for  that.  She  would  chain  him  herself,  pass  a 
ring  through  his  upper  lip,  as  she  did  to  bears, 
and  teach  him  tricks. 

And  afterward — ah,  afterward — he  would 
know  who  Margarita  was.  She  ran  to  her  tent, 
looked  at  herself  in  the  silver-handled  mirror  her 
father  had  once  given  her,  and  screamed  again. 
He  had  cut  off  her  hair!  The  coward!  Better 
he  had  killed  her! 

How  could  she  ever  show  herself  now?  She 
would  have  to  stay  in  her  hut  the  whole  Winter; 
avoid  being  seen  by  any  one.  Oh,  why  had  he  not 
killed  her?  He  would  pay  for  that.  Oh,  he 
would  pay !  She  stampeded  the  dogs  and  grazing 
horses  and  in  her  excitement  tore  through  the 
camp  like  a  whirlwind. 

Presently,  only  too  eager  to  start  the  journey 
of  revenge,  she  blew  the  horn  to  call  her  father. 
But  when  she  saw  him  descending  the  nearest 
mountain  she  went  into  the  tent,  and,  covering 
her  head  with  a  colored  shawl,  a  basma,  she  pre- 
tended to  Costa  that  she  had  called  him  because 
she  was  so  wretched.  She  did  not  mention  Pe- 
trackio's  visit. 


THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER  195 

"What's  the  basma  on  your  head?"  Costa 
asked. 

"Washed  my  hair,  tatuca" 

"What  do  you  want,  Margarita?  Why  have 
you  called  me?  Here,  what  is  the  matter  with 
that  bear  there?  Bleeding,  I  see,  and  loose  too. 
By  all  the  devils!  Margarita,  what  have  you 
been  up  to?" 

"Oh,  leave  him.  He  is  like  a  kitten  again. 
Leave  him,  father.  Why  don't  you  ever  get  real 
ones  again?  When  spring  comes  I  go  with  you 
hunting." 

"But  what  has  happened  to  the  bear,  Margar- 
ita? Has  he  thrown  you?  Did  you  call  me  be- 
cause you  were  afraid  now  that  the  beast  is  loose  ? 
Speak,  you  she-devil." 

"Afraid!     I?     Here!" 

And  she  went  close  to  the  bear. 

"But  then  why  have  you  called  me  suddenly?" 

"Oh,  because  I  want  you  to  take  me  to  the 
village." 

"So,  so;  well,  that's  different!  Let's  close  up 
this  martino  until  we  come  back,  and  let  us  go. 
Saddle  my  horse,  Margarita,  while  you  saddle 
yours."  As  he  spoke  Costa  roped  the  bear  and 
dragged  it  to  a  fissure  in  the  mountain  for  which 
a  revolving  rock  served  as  a  door. 

"That's  women.  They  are  all  alike  when  the 
time  comes.  Their  feet  burn.  They  want  to 


196  THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER 

go  and  come.  She,  too,  like  the  rest,"  muttered 
Costa  as  he  finished  his  job. 

Father  and  daughter  were  not  loquacious.  Se- 
clusion breeds  silence.  Margarita  rode  on  her 
small  horse,  following  at  a  few  paces  from  her 
father's  mount.  As  she  rode  on  she  thought  of 
him,  of  Petrackio.  Of  course  he  was  a  real  one. 
But  was  she  herself  a  real  one?  How  he  had 
knocked  the  whip  from  her  hand  and  thrown  her 
to  the  ground!  It  had  come  with  such  sudden- 
ness and  force  that  she  did  not  know  how  it  had 
been  done. 

But  she  still  felt  the  grip  of  his  fingers  on  her 
arm,  the  hardness  of  his  knee  between  her  shoul- 
ders and  the  quick  hot  breath  as  he  spoke  to  her 
while  she  was  at  his  mercy. 

"Snake!  I  don't  kill  women.  I  want  your 
father  to  know  that  I  have  been  here." 

That  was  bravery.  She  would  fight  him,  him 
alone.  She  would  tame  him.  But  not  like  that, 
not  as  one  tames  a  bear.  That  was  not  the  way. 
He  was  a  man. 

By  the  time  they  had  reached  the  market- 
place of  the  village  Margarita  had  reconstructed 
the  whole  episode  of  the  morning  a  hundred  times 
and  had  judged  carefully  his  actions  and  hers. 
She  had  very  little  to  reproach  herself  with.  She 
had  acted  as  she  should.  And  he?  He  .  .  .  No. 
He  should  have  killed  her.  No.  No.  That 
would  not  have  been  the  right  thing.  To  cut  off 


THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER  197 

her  hair,  to  provoke  her  father  by  the  insult,  was 
greater  bravery. 

By  the  time  they  had  tethered  their  horses  to 
the  trees  in  front  of  the  inn  Margarita  had 
weighed  him  carefully  in  her  mind  and  decided 
that  he  was  a  real  one. 

Not  a  word  to  her  father.  She  would  take  care 
of  all  that  herself.  All  alone.  Costa  had  a 
grudge  to  settle  with  Ursu.  That  was  all  his 
affair.  The  grudge  between  herself  and  Pe- 
trackio  was  a  separate  thing. 

"Whoa,  look  who  is  here!"  several  peasants 
called  out  loudly  at  Costa's  appearance  at  the  inn. 
Come  in,  come  in.  Fata  mare,  come  in  and  let 
us  look  at  your  eyes,"  said  the  innkeeper,  being 
seconded  by  the  popa,  the  priest  of  the  village. 

"Still  training  cubs,  girl,  fata  mare?"  Popa 
Yancu  asked,  trying  to  pinch  Margarita's  arm. 

"Cubs!"  called  out  Costa.  "Cubs!  She  is 
taming  the  wildest  quite  as  well  as  I  can."  And, 
growing  suddenly  very  proud  of  his  daughter: 
"Better,  even  better,  I  say.  She  may  sit  among 
men  at  the  inn  and  everywhere.  Sit  near  me, 
Margarita,  here.  Bring  wine,  the  oldest,  Calin, 
you  swindling  innkeeper,  and  set  glasses,  big 
glasses,  Hungarian  fashion,  for  each  of  us,  in- 
cluding my  daughter."  And  turning  to  Margar- 
ita, he  said:  "And  if  you  want  music,  I  will  send 
a  messenger  to  bring  Yancu  Lautauru,  or  any 


198  THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER 

one  you  like  best  to  hear.  No?  As  you  wish  it 
to  be." 

"Ursu  has  gone  by,  an  hour  ago,"  said  the  inn- 
keeper Calin  as  he  filled  the  glasses. 

"And  why  do  you  tell  me  that?"  broke  out  Cos- 
ta in  a  rage.  "Have  I  ever  inquired  about  him, 
what?" 

"No,  Costa,  but  he  was  bitten  by  a  snake  while 
he  was  in  the  mountains.  He  had  to  cut  off  one 
of  his  toes — he  may  lose  his  right  foot — it  swells 
so  rapidly  and  he  is  lame,  maybe  forever,"  said 
the  innkeeper. 

"Is  that  so?  Tell  us  more.  What  do  you 
know  about  it?"  the  peasants  asked,  curious  for 
further  information. 

"That's  all  I  know.  I  sold  him  some  pure 
brandy.  It's  good  to  have  it  near  oneself  be- 
fore the  end  comes,"  the  innkeeper  added.  "He 
looks  old  and  worn,  and  is  bent  like  a  twig  after  a 
hailstorm." 

"Well,  that's  different,  Calin,  that's  different," 
Costa  muttered  as  he  sat  down  again  and  began 
to  bite  off  the  ends  of  his  long  beard  as  he  al- 
ways did  when  he  had  to  suppress  great  rage. 
"And  do  you  say  he  will  remain  lame  for  life, 
Calin?" 

"Looks  that  way  to  me." 

Father's  and  daughter's  eyes  met.  Margarita 
knew  how  he  hated  Ursu.  He  looked  at  her  and 
she  understood.  He  was  being  cheated  of  his  re- 


THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER  199 

venge.  He  could  not  fight  a  lame  man.  He  did 
not  know  what  her  look  said.  He  was  blinded 
by  his  own  rage  against  men  and  bears  and  life 
itself.  Life  was  becoming  too  tame  an  affair. 
Men  were  tame.  Bears  were  tame.  No  fights. 
No  wolves.  No  robbers.  No  women  were  stolen. 
Ursu  had  been  the  only  man  and  now  he  was 
lame. 

"Has  a  fine  lad  for  a  son,  Ursu  has,"  the  popa 
said  as  he  looked  at  Margarita  and  winked  to 
the  rest  of  the  assemblage.  "He  is  a  better  hunter 
than  his  father." 

"That's  not  very  much,"  said  Costa. 

They  all  laughed  at  the  sally  and  punched 
the  gypsy  in  the  ribs. 

"Well,  no,  it's  not  so  at  all,"  explained  the 
popa.  "He  is  as  strong  a  boy  as  there  is  within 
fifty  miles  of  here.  Quiet  and  strong,  and  good 
too.  And  he  can  tame  a  bear  as  well  as  anybody. 
I  ought  to  know!" 

It  was  only  on  rare  occasions  that  the  popa 
thus  revealed  the  fact  that  he  was  himself  the  son 
of  a  bear-tamer.  It  was  plain  that  the  popa 
favored  Petrackio. 

"Well,  be  that  as  it  may,"  said  Costa,  "but  I 
bet  a  gold-piece  that  Margarita  could  throw  him." 

"No,  no,  no,"  many  voices  rose  at  once. 

"I  bet  a  hundred  gold-pieces." 

"You  might  as  well  bet  a  thousand!"  the  popa 


200  THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER 

exclaimed.  "I  know  the  boy  too  well.  He  won't 
wrestle  with  a  girl." 

"But  I  tell  you  that  she  can  throw  any  man," 
Costa  argued  as  the  wine  began  to  have  its  effect. 
He  was  a  bad  drinker  and  was  becoming  boister- 
ous and  quarrelsome  after  a  few  drinks. 

"Well,  Calin,  it's  all  your  fault.  Giving  news 
about  some  one  at  least  one  of  the  party  is  not 
interested  in,"  said  an  old  peasant  as  he  made 
ready  to  leave  the  table. 

"That's  so.  Miron  is  right,"  seconded  Costa 
as  he  rose  from  his  chair.  "Here  I  come  ready 
to  drink  and  have  some  music,  talk  with  friends 
and  please  my  daughter  when  he  finds  nothing 
else  to  tell  me  but  that  Ursu  had  gone  by.  Here, 
take  your  money  from  this  gold-piece.  Come, 
daughter.  Good  night,  men." 

And  Costa  stalked  out  of  the  inn  before  any- 
body else  had  left. 

Margarita  rode  silently  near  her  father.  Like 
a  flock  of  golden  sheep  the  rays  of  the  sun  broke 
and  scattered  themselves  on  the  cold,  silver  moun- 
tain peaks.  From  time  to  time  an  awkward 
movement  of  some  animal  disturbed  some  stone 
or  bowlder  which  rolled  down  the  mountainside, 
filling  the  valley  with  sharp  echoes  that  died  in 
dull,  hollow  thuds  as  they  ended  in  the  valleys. 

Suddenly  Costa  began  to  sob.  He  cried  easily 
after  a  glass  of  wine.  It  was  his  weakest  spot. 
And  as  he  cried  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  mountains 


THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER  201 

cried  with  him,  felt  his  sorrow  and  wept  with  him. 
Margarita,  awakened  from  her  own  dreams,  sped 
her  horse. 

"Why  have  you  waited  twenty  years?"  she  re- 
proached her  father,  knowing  the  reason  for  his 
sorrow.  "If  I  had  a  grudge  to  settle  I  would  not 
wait  that  long.  The  same  day,  the  same  day,  or 
a  day  later  at  most." 

"Oh,  a  bad  year!  A  bad  year,"  moaned  Cos- 
ta. "Without  a  wife!  Bears  tame  as  kittens  and 
Ursu  lame,  lame,  lame?  Oh!  Oh!  It's  a  bad 
year,  a  bad  year,  daughter." 

"You  don't  even  catch  a  live  one  now,"  the 
daughter  reproached  him  again.  "Is  it  because 
you  are  getting  old?  Or  are  bears  and  men  all 
tame  now  ?  You  cry  like  a  woman.  Listen,  the 
mountain  cries  too.  Shame!" 

"I  old?  I  old?  You  are  crazy.  The  bears 
were  tame  last  year.  Too  long  a  winter.  Too 
long.  Without  a  wife,  and  Ursu  lame,"  and  the 
old  man  sobbed  again.  "Let  the  mountains  cry 
with  me.  They  understand,  they  understand." 

It  was  pitch  dark  by  the  time  they  had  reached 
their  gully,  and  Costa  stretched  himself  on  the 
straw-pile  as  soon  as  he  let  the  flap  of  his  tent  fall 
back  again. 

Margarita  stabled,  watered  and  fed  the  horses 
before  she  thought  again  of  herself.  She  touched 
her  neck  and  felt  again  with  her  fingers  the 
place  where  her  heavy  tresses  had  been  cut  off. 


202  THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER 

She  thought  of  him  and  cursed  him  for  the  in- 
sult. 

Yet  although  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  still 
felt  the  grip  of  his  steel-like  fingers  on  her  flesh 
she  had  no  desire  to  free  herself,  no  desire  to 
shake  off  the  illusion  of  a  sharp  knee  that  pressed 
down  her  shoulders;  and  between  a  thousand 
curses  and  tears  of  rage  she  saw  Petrackio's 
sharp  features,  the  eyes  set  well  apart,  the  small 
ears  set  back  firmly,  the  mouth  and  nose  and 
forehead  bespeaking  courage  and  decision. 

Margarita  could  not  sleep.  As  she  reviewed 
again  what  had  happened  in  the  morning  she  re- 
gretted that  she  had  not  used  the  whip  on  Pe- 
trackio  more  than  she  had  done.  It  would  have 
been  much  better,  she  thought.  He  should  know 
that  Costa's  daughter  was  not  a  plaything.  He 
would  have  gone  home  and  found  his  father  had 
returned.  Petrackio  would  have  come  to  see  her. 
It  would  have  been  well  for  him  to  know  that 
Costa's  daughter  was  not  to  be  trifled  with.  She 
should  have  used  the  whip  more  rapidly.  It 
might  have  saved  her  long  tresses. 

She  tried  to  place  in  her  memory  the  exact  in- 
stant the  boy  had  knocked  the  whip  out  of  her 
hand  and  thrown  her  to  the  ground.  She  was 
doubtlessly  in  his  power  then,  absolutely  in  his 
power.  He  could  have  done  what  he  pleased 
with  her — he  could  have  killed  her. 

As  she  sat  on  the  ground  in  front  of  her  tent 


THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER  203 

she  suddenly  heard  the  beat  of  a  horse's  hoofs  at 
a  distance.  Margarita  listened  and  when  she  was 
sure  the  rider  came  toward  the  gully  she  entered 
her  tent.  The  hoof -beats  soon  ceased.  A  dog 
barked.  After  that  she  heard  a  sharp,  long,  pene- 
trating whistle.  Margarita's  ears,  accustomed 
to  catch  the  sounds,  soon  knew  that  the  birds  in 
the  surrounding  chestnut-trees  were  scenting  dan- 
ger. The  flight  of  a  chipmunk  told  her  that  the 
intruder  was  within  sight  of  the  camp. 

Again  the  dog  barked;  just  one  short  yelp  and 
no  more.  Some  one  had  thrown  him  a  piece  of 
raw  meat.  She  had  heard  the  flop  of  it  as  it  fell 
to  the  ground.  Then  some  one  whistled  softly 
from  very  near.  Margarita  could  hardly  con- 
tain herself  for  joy. 

It  was  Petrackio.  He  was  a  real  one  and  she 
was  taming  him!  It  was  the  old  sensation  of 
taming  live  bears  with  a  thousand  new  thrills 
added.  She  forgot  all  about  the  loss  of  her 
tresses.  What  did  they  matter  when  weighed 
against  such  pleasure  ? 

Something  in  her  urged  her  to  rush  out  to  the 
man  and  talk  to  him.  But  something  stronger 
held  her  back,  gave  promise  of  greater  pleasure 
if  she  but  sat  quiet  and  watched  the  taming.  It 
was  like  drinking  good  wine  in  small  gulps  to 
prolong  the  pleasure,  to  satiate  oneself  with  the 
exquisite  taste. 

She  heard  the  whistling  again  and  again  and 


204  THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER 

every  time  she  heard  the  shrill  sounds  she  thought 
it  the  sweetest  music.  Not  the  loudest  howl  from 
the  fiercest  bear  she  had  ever  tamed  could  com- 
pare with  that.  He,  Petrackio,  was  a  real  one, 
and  she  was  taming  him.  And  not  with  a  cow- 
hide whip.  Not  with  red-hot  coals  and  a  piece  of 
sheet  iron  on  which  the  bear  was  compelled  to 
dance.  No,  no,  with  another  weapon,  an  invisi- 
ble weapon,  a  sharper  and  more  potent  one. 

She  would  have  screamed  for  joy  but  she  con- 
trolled herself.  Silence  added  to  the  sting  of  the 
weapon.  More  than  that.  It  was  the  weapon. 

Daylight  was  coming  in  through  rents  in  the 
canvas  of  the  tent.  The  few  last  screeches  of  a 
preying  owl,  then  the  clicking  of  wild  pheasants 
proclaimed  that  the  sun  was  peeping  over  the 
mountain  tops,  like  a  red-faced  boy  over  a  high 
garden  fence.  He,  Petrackio,  was  calling  her. 
He  was  calling  her.  But  she  would  not  answer. 

There  was  a  last  appeal  in  an  "Oho,  oho!" 
coming  from  behind  her  tent,  then  there  was 
silence  for  a  while.  After  that,  and  before  there 
were  too  many  sounds  in  the  valley,  Margarita 
heard  the  hoof-beats  of  a  departing  horse.  Tired, 
feverish,  she  fell  asleep. 

"Ho,  ho,  ho!"  She  awoke  suddenly,  hearing 
her  father's  voice  outside  her  tent.  "The  sun 
has  gone  to  Hungary  and  you  are  still  sleeping! 
Was  the  wine  too  strong  for  you?  What?" 


THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER  205 

"Yes,  no,  yes,  no,  tatuca.  Let  me  sleep.  I 
want  to  sleep.  My  head  aches." 

"That  comes  from  washing  your  hair  too 
often,"  the  father  answered  before  leaving. 
After  that  he  muttered  to  himself,  "When  the 
time  comes,  they  are  all  like  that." 

She  heard  her  father  approach  her  tent  several 
times  before  nightfall  but  she  made  believe  that 
she  was  fast  asleep.  He  left  some  food  near  her 
cot.  But,  as  in  the  days  when  they  had  a  real  one 
to  tame,  she  felt  no  hunger,  only  a  horrible  thirst. 
An  hour  after  sunset,  Margarita  was  listening 
for  the  hoof -beats.  She  heard  none. 

Her  pain  was  now  sharper  than  yesterday's 
joy.  She  waited  and  listened  until  midnight. 
Not  a  sound.  She  went  out  of  her  tent  and 
looked  at  the  sky.  Her  whip,  the  weapon  in 
which  she  had  had  so  much  confidence  all  the 
years,  was  at  her  feet.  She  scorned  it  now.  It 
was  a  weapon  as  crude  as  a  child's  plaything. 

After  she  had  waited  and  listened  for  many 
weary  hours  she  whistled  loud  and  long.  The 
sound  reverberated,  thrown  from  one  mountain 
wall  to  the  other  and  back,  until  it  died  in  some 
distant  gully.  It  was  like  the  call  of  some  wild 
animal. 

She  waited  silently.  There  was  no  answer  to 
her  call.  But  when  she  lifted  the  flap  of  her  tent 
at  daybreak  she  found  the  two  braided  tresses 
lying  across  the  cot.  Startled,  shocked,  mad, 


206  THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER 

speechless,  Margarita  took  one  of  the  tresses  in 
each  hand  and  rushed  out  again.  Nobody  to  be 
seen.  The  dog  was  peacefully  licking  his  chops. 
Wild-eyed,  the  girl  looked  around  her.  Seized 
by  an  uncontrollable  rage,  she  went  for  her  whip 
and  began  to  lash  the  dog  with  its  thongs. 

"So,  ha,  ha,  you  will  let  thieves  go  and  come  as 
they  please,  will  you,  will  you,  ha?  Take  this  and 
take  that." 

"Why  do  you  hit  the  dog?"  asked  Costa,  com- 
ing out  of  his  tent,  awakened  by  the  animal's 
howls. 

"Why?  Why?  Because,  look,  look!  Look 
at  my  hair.  Some  one  has  entered  my  tent  and 
sheared  them  off  while  I  was  asleep.  And  he  did 
not  move,  did  not  bark,  nothing." 

"What?  What  is  that?"  Costa  screamed. 
"Who  did  that?  Who  did  that?  If  I  did  not 
know  that  Ursu  was  lame,  by  fire  and  water! 
Margarita — my  poor  girl — my  poor  girl — who 
could  have  done  it?  I  will  go  to  the  end  of  the 
world  to  find  him." 

"A  thief,  a  coward,  a  triple  coward,  one  who 
dared  not  fight  me  in  daylight,"  screamed  Mar- 
garita at  the  top  of  her  voice,  knowing  that  Pe- 
trackio  could  not  be  too  far  off  to  hear  her  words. 

Costa  was  soon  on  his  horse. 

"I  shall  not  return  before  finding  the  thief, 
the  coward,"  was  all  he  said  before  riding  away. 

Costa  was  hardly  out  of  sight  when  Petrackio 


THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER  207 

showed  himself,  emerging  from  behind  a  tree 
only  a  few  paces  behind  the  girl. 

"Well,  I  heard  you  calling  me  a  while  ago,  so 
I  arrived  astride  an  eagle  and  dropped  your 
tresses  on  your  cot  through  the  air-hole  on  top 
of  your  tent.  Why  have  you  called  me?" 

"Called  you?    I  called  you?" 

"I  heard  your  whistle!" 

"That  was  for  the  dog." 

"Be  it  as  you  say,"  Petrackio  grinned.  "Well 
then,  I  may  go,  Costa's  daughter.  I  gave  you 
back  what  I  took  from  you."  He  turned  to  leave 
her.  "I  was  sorry,  afraid  that  your  father  might 
beat  you." 

"Did  I  ask  my  hair  back  from  you?  No.  I 
did  not." 

"I  thought  you  might  want  it  back,"  he  said 
banteringly,  without  looking  at  the  girl,  "and,  as 
I  happened  to  pass  this  way  I  just  dropped  it  in 
the  tent." 

"You  lie;  you  came  on  purpose,"  answered 
Margarita. 

She  felt  a  sudden  pang  as  she  saw  the  deep 
gash  her  whip  had  cut  in  the  boy's  face.  They 
looked  each  other  over.  The  glint  of  his  eyes 
gripped  her  eyes  even  more  strongly  than  his 
steely  fingers  had  gripped  her  a  day  before.  The 
sound  of  a  galloping  horse  was  coming  nearer 
and  nearer.  Her  father  was  returning.  She 


208  THE  BEAR-TAMER'S  DAUGHTER 

looked  at  Petrackio.  He  too  had  heard  the  hoof- 
beats  yet  there  was  no  trace  of  fear  on  his  face. 

Margarita  watched  the  boy's  face  while  she 
measured  the  nearing  sound  of  the  hoof-beats. 
Her  father  must  have  entered  the  mouth  of  the 
gully.  Petrackio  knew  that  as  well  as  she,  yet 
he  did  not  move  a  foot.  He  looked  at  her  stead- 
ily. When  she  had  heard  her  father's  voice  talk- 
ing to  the  horse  and  seen  that  the  boy  had  made 
no  move  to  leave,  to  hide  between  the  trees,  she 
called  to  him,  trembling  with  fear: 

"Hide,  for  God's  sake,  hide.    He  comes." 

"I  will  wait  for  you  on  Sunday  at  the  inn,"  Pe- 
trackio said  quietly  before  vanishing  behind  a 
tree. 

And  as  the  bear-tamer's  daughter  passed  by 
the  tree  to  which  a  bear  was  chained  she  felt  that 
she  herself  was  as  a  bear  that  had  been  tamed,  or 
a  trainer  that  had  been  tamed  by  a  real  live  bear, 
tamed  to  do  the  master's  will,  yet  she  was  already 
unhappy,  thinking  of  the  long  days  and  long 
nights  between  then  and  Sunday. 


YANCU  LAUTARU 

THE  Marinescus  were  Moldavian  Boyars,  their 
lands  stretched  from  near  the  Bratesh  lake, — 
where  the  Prut  river,  separating  Rumania  from 
Bessarabia,  merges  with  the  Danube, — to  the 
city  of  Falcui ;  inland  it  goes  as  far  as  the  Seret 
river,  on  which  lumber  is  sent  down  on  log  rafts 
from  the  forests  of  Bucovina  to  be  loaded  for 
export  on  sea-going  boats  at  anchor  in  the  port 
of  Galatz  or  Braila. 

One-eighth  of  Moldavia  was  owned  by  the 
Marinescus.  They  claimed  descent  from  Stefan 
Voevod,  "Cel  Mare,"  The  Great  One,  who  had 
repeatedly  defeated  the  Turkish  hosts  in  battle 
and  won  Rumania's  political  independence. 

On  the  Prut  river  the  Marinescus  owned  a 
magnificent  castle  which  in  grandeur  and  beauty 
of  style  had  no  equal  in  the  whole  country.  And 
besides  the  curte,  the  court,  of  the  Boyar,  there 
were  numerous  smaller  castles  in  which  lived  the 
near  and  distant-  relatives  of  the  reigning  head. 
Each  head  of  a  Marinescu  family  was  in  charge 
of  part  of  the  land.  Some  were  in  charge  of 
the  grain-crops,  other  of  the  forests  and  saw- 

209 


210  YANCU  LAUTARU 

mills.  Some  of  the  Marinescus  were  in  charge 
of  the  cattle-raising  business  of  the  house,  and 
others  took  care  of  the  thousands  of  sheep  which 
grazed  along  the  river  from  early  spring  to  late 
in  the  fall.  There  were  thousands  of  acres  of 
sugar  beets,  and  large  fisheries  to  be  taken  care 
of.  The  wealth  of  one  of  the  family  was  the 
wealth  of  all.  It  was  enough  to  say  of  one  that 
he  was  a  Marinescu  to  convey  that  he  had  behind 
him  the  total  wealth  of  one-eighth  of  Moldavia. 
And  the  honor  of  one,  even  the  remotest  relative, 
as  long  as  his  name  was  Marinescu,  was  the  honor 
of  all  of  them  and  was  jealously  guarded. 

When  a  woman  of  the  family  married  outside 
the  circle  of  her  first  and  second  cousins,  she  was 
given  a  large  dowry  in  gold,  her  share  of  the  com- 
mon fortune;  but  the  land  was  kept  intact  in 
perpetuity  to  the  males  of  the  name.  As  soon 
as  the  crops  were  harvested,  the  cattle  stabled, 
and  the  sheep  gathered  in  the  Stinas  for  winter 
quarters,  the  Marinescus  departed  from  their 
country  homes.  Some  went  to  Paris,  where  they 
owned  palaces  on  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain, 
where  they  were  addressed  as  Prince  and  Prin- 
cess, and  had  Salons  where  the  most  famous  men 
of  arts  and  letters  were  entertained.  Others 
went  to  Florence,  to  Venice,  and  in  later  years, 
around  the  '90's,  some  members  of  the  family, 
finally  reconciled  to  the  Hohenzollern  court 
reigning  in  Rumania,  wintered  in  Bucharest.  The 


YANCU  LAUTARU  211 

Marinescus  were  the  last  of  the  Boyars  to  forgive 
the  removal  of  the  seat  of  the  country  from  Jassy 
to  the  city  upon  the  Dimbovitza  river. 

To  the  chief  of  the  family  (direct  descendant 
of  Stefan  Voevod),  living  in  the  great  castle, 
each  member  owed  a  strict  account  of  his  be- 
havior. The  Boyar  of  the  castle  was  the  one 
who  approved  or  disapproved  of  intended  mar- 
riages, political  aspirations,  and  the  careers  of 
the  sons  of  the  different  houses.  The  one  who 
dared  choose  without  his  approval  was  cast  out 
by  him  without  appeal  and  without  recourse.  The 
decision  of  the  great  Boyar  was  irrevocable. 
"You  are  no  longer  a  Marinescu,"  that  formula 
ended  all  relationship,  put  an  end  to  incomes  and 
deprived  a  man  of  all  property  save  what  he  was 
wearing  on  his  back.  Such  occurrences  had  been 
very  few  and  widely  separated;  only  three  in 
the  four  centuries  of  the  Marinescu  dominion, 
but  they  formed  the  background  for  dozens  of 
legends,  legends  of  passionate  love  between  a 
Boyar's  son  and  a  gypsy  girl,  or  a  Boyar's  daugh- 
ter and  some  gypsy  fiddler  at  home  or  abroad. 

Gypsies  had  been  the  bane  of  the  family.  In- 
deed no  gypsy  tribe  was  allowed  to  camp  on 
Marinescu  ground.  Still,  amongst  the  gypsies 
roving  in  Moldavia,  whenever  a  young  maiden 
had  refused  more  than  one  young  wooer,  think- 
ing them  beneath  her,  people  said,  sneering,  that 
she  was  waiting  for  a  Marinescu  to  steal  her. 


212  YANCU  LAUTARU 

The  name  Marinescu  occurred  so  frequently 
in  the  talk  of  the  gypsies  that  one  would  have 
thought  that  for  centuries  and  centuries  the  sons 
and  daughters  of  the  open  road  had  intermarried 
regularly  with  the  scions  of  the  Boyars  of  the 
great  castle.  The  slightest  tinge  of  white  blood 
made  a  Marinescu  out  of  a  gypsy.  In  the  eyes 
of  the  gypsies  the  Marinescu's  was  the  only  white 
blood  in  the  country.  Sometimes  it  was  hurled 
as  a  reproach,  an  infamy,  and  at  other  times  it 
was  considered  ennobling,  as  giving  the  possessor 
rights  to  special  consideration,  to  special  care 
when  ill,  and  to  priority  when  a  leader  was  to  be 
chosen.  "A  man  who  has  a  drop  of  Marinescu 
blood  in  him  can  be  depended  on  in  times  of 
stress,"  was  what  every  gypsy  used  to  say  when 
the  old  leader  failed  him  or  died  childless,  leaving 
his  succession  open. 

Stefan  Marinescu  was  taken  to  Paris  by  his 
mother  when  he  was  not  yet  twenty.  He  was 
the  only  son  of  the  Boyar  of  the  great  castle. 
That  he  had  not  been  taken  to  the  great  city  be- 
fore was  mainly  due  to  his  father's  frequent  ill- 
nesses, which  kept  the  old  cripple  at  his  country 
home.  Stefan  was  a  powerfully  built  youth 
with  big  dark  eyes  and  long  black  hair.  Tall, 
broad-shouldered,  with  arms  that  swung  when 
he  walked  and  feet  that  planted  themselves  firmly 
on  the  ground  in  long  rhythmic  strides,  Stefan 
gave  the  impression  of  a  young  Hercules.  His 


YANCU  LAUTARU  213 

voice  was  round  and  bell-like  when  he  spoke,  and 
his  slightest  wish,  though  voiced  with  utmost 
respect,  was  equivalent  to  an  order. 

Lautaru,  one  of  the  greatest  gypsy  violinists 
of  Rumania,  had  taught  him  to  play  the  violin. 
Though  Yancu  was  a  very  busy  man,  he  made  the 
trip  every  week  from  Galatz  on  the  Danube  to 
the  Boyar's  house  on  the  Prut  river,  more  than 
fifty  miles,  in  a  carriage  sent  specially  for  him 
and  which  brought  him  home  two  days  later. 
And  just  before  Stefan  had  gone  to  Paris  with  his 
mother,  Yancu  Lautaru  had  begged  an  audience 
with  the  great  Boyar  and  told  him  that  he  had 
taught  the  young  Boyar  all  he  knew  and  that 
Conitzu  Stefan  could  indeed  play  the  violin 
better  than  he,  Yancu  Lautaru,  the  best  lautar 
in  Rumania,  were  he  to  live  a  hundred  years 
more.  And  the  old  gypsy  begged  the  Boyar  to 
call  for  his  son  other  teachers,  greater  ones,  from 
the  land  of  the  Franks,  because  a  player  like 
Boyar  Stefan  was  as  rare  as  roses  in  the  snow. 
In  his  mother's  salon,  on  the  Boulevard  St.  Ger- 
main, the  young  Rumanian  became  easily  the 
center  of  every  gathering.  Whenever  he  had 
gone  out  visiting  with  the  Princess,  his  mother, 
the  young  Moldavian  Prince  was  hedged  in  by 
the  enamored  eyes  of  the  young  countesses 
and  baronesses  of  the  wealthiest  and  oldest  fam- 
ilies of  France.  He  was  the  social  lion  of  that 
season.  The  best  musicians  of  France,  even 


214  YANCU  LAUTARU 

those  who  had  kept  aloof  from  the  salons,  had 
begged  for  invitations  whenever  and  wherever 
it  was  known  that  the  Prince  was  to  come.  After 
hearing  him  play  the  violin  they  rushed  to  their 
friends  and  told  wonderful  tales  of  golden  sound 
that  flowed  from  the  big  Moldavian's  bow,  of  un- 
earthly harmonies  that  rose  from  the  strings  and 
dissolved  into  ethereal  voices  which  haunted  the 
soul  and  defied  the  memory.  His  tone  was  as 
big  and  wide  and  deep  as  he  chose  it  to  be,  and  the 
most  difficult  passages  were  tossed  off  with  ease 
and  grandeur. 

There  were  no  such  things  as  technical  diffi- 
culties for  Stefan  Marinescu.  And  he  could 
change  from  the  saddest  melody,  from  one  in 
which  the  stars,  the  heavens,  and  the  seas  seemed 
to  complain  of  their  eternity,  to  a  tripping  dance 
of  breathless  speed,  in  which  the  mountains,  the 
fields,  and  men  and  beast  mingled  in  the  joy  of 
life  ...  of  life  when  the  spring-sap  rises  in  the 
trees  and  makes  the  blood  course  rapidly,  of 
life  when  the  fruits  fall,  the  wind  blows,  and  the 
yellow  leaves  flutter  in  the  air. 

The  mother,  a  Marinescu  herself,  a  second 
cousin,  married  early  to  the  reigning  head  of  the 
family,  was  so  happy  because  her  son  was  lion- 
ized that  she  wrote  long  letters  about  it  to  her 
sick  husband,  who  made  a  great  effort  and  joined 
them  in  Paris  at  the  end  of  the  winter  season. 

Stefan  wrote  to  his  teacher,  to  Yancu  Lau- 


YANCU  LAUTARU  215 

taru,  that  he  wished  he  were  with  him.  "The 
week  is  empty  without  you,"  he  wrote. 

Nicolai  Marinescu,  the  Boyar,  was  anxious  to 
be  near  his  son.  There  had  been  another  Stefan 
Marinescu  in  the  family,  a  century  ago,  and  the 
story  had  it  that  that  Stefan,  too,  had  played 
the  violin  with  marvelous  skill.  But  he  ended  by 
being  cast  out  from  the  castle  by  his  father  be- 
cause of  a  love  affair  with  the  daughter  of  an 
Italian  painter.  Marinescu  had  come  to  Paris 
more  to  watch  against  a  possible  mesalliance, 
than  to  enjoy  the  enthusiastic  receptions  given  to 
his  son  in  the  salons  of  the  nobles. 

But  the  young  man  seemed  to  care  very  little 
for  even  the  most  beautiful  young  ladies  he  met. 
He  smiled  at  them  and  talked  to  them,  but  the 
most  enticing  could  not  warm  in  him  the  desire 
even  of  meeting  them  again. 

Stefan  had  very  little  in  common  with  his 
father.  He  respected  him  but  without  knowing 
whether  he  loved  him  or  not.  But  the  young 
Boyar  was  very  intimate  with  his  mother.  When 
she  had  praised  the  beauty  of  one  of  the  young 
ladies  and  intimated  a  possible  engagement,  he 
answered  frankly,  "But,  Mamutza,  her  voice 
is  so  harsh!  Her  voice  is  empty,  cracked. 
Mamutza,  the  woman  I  could  love  must  have  a 
voice  I  could  hear  with  pleasure.  Don't  insist. 
I  will  find  the  one  with  the  voice  I  should  like. 
I  can  hear  her  voice  already." 


216  YANCU  LAUTARU 

Thus  the  first  Parisian  season  ended.  In  the 
spring  Stefan  returned  with  his  mother  to  his 
father's  castle.  Yancu  Lautaru  was  called  by 
Stefan  as  soon  as  he  arrived,  and  the  old  gypsy 
again  spent  long  hours  with  the  young  Boyar. 
The  few  months'  absence  had  drawn  the  two 
nearer  to  each  other.  The  old  man  had  aged  con- 
siderably in  those  few  months.  When  they  were 
not  playing  together  they  went  walking  in  the 
fields  or  boating  on  the  river.  The  young  man 
told  his  old  teacher  all  he  knew  about  the  wonders 
of  the  great  city,  promising  to  take  him  there  in 
the  near  future.  And  the  old  man  questioned  the 
boy  and  wanted  to  hear  what  the  Franks  had  said 
about  Stefan's  playing.  The  Franks  were  good 
judges.  One  of  his  relatives  had  taken  Paris 
by  storm  a  few  years  before  and  married  a  rich 
princess  whose  wealth  in  gold  and  lands  equaled 
that  of  a  king's  and  whose  beauty  was  famed 
all  over  the  world. 

For  months  the  two  were  together  every  week, 
but  when  the  first  snow  flurry  had  descended 
about  the  grounds  of  the  castle,  the  Marinescus, 
the  whole  household,  were  off  again  to  Paris. 
Stefan  had  obtained  permission  to  take  Yancu 
Lautaru  with  him,  and  the  old  gypsy's  company 
made  the  week's  journey  a  happy  one. 

At  first  Nicolai  Marinescu,  the  father,  had  no 
objection  to  Yancu  Lautaru's  friendship  for  his 
son.  He  liked  the  old  man.  In  their  youth — 


YANCU  LAUTARU  217 

they  were  of  the  same  age — they  had  played  to- 
gether. Yancu  Lautaru  had  played  at  his  wed- 
ding and  entertained  him  during  long  weeks  of 
illness.  But  when  he  saw  his  son  preferring  the 
companionship  of  the  gypsy  to  all  other  people 
he  became  worried  over  Stefan's  future.  All 
the  European  culture  Nicolai  Marinescu  had  ab- 
sorbed in  his  travels  and  sojourns  in  the  great 
capitals  of  the  old  world  had  not  extinguished  a 
paganistic  superstition,  a  belief  in  witchcraft  as 
practiced  by  the  tziganes,  the  gypsies.  It  was 
said  of  them  that  they  communicated  with  spirits 
and  had  the  assistance  of  Beelzebub  himself 
whenever  they  were  ready  to  pay  the  price  the 
dark  monarch  demanded.  That  other  Stefan 
Marinescu  of  a  century  before  had  been  be- 
witched by  a  woman  with  the  help  of  an  old 
gypsy.  The  sorceress  was  seen  with  the  young 
woman  standing  naked  in  the  open  field,  at  mid- 
night, invoking  the  moon.  And  the  peasants  had 
sworn  that  they  had  heard  a  flute-like  voice  an- 
swering the  young  woman's  prayers.  "He  will 
love  your  eyes  if  you  give  me  your  soul  every 
Monday  of  the  new  moon.  He  will  love  your 
lips  if  you  give  me  the  Thursdays."  And  when 
she  had  accepted,  the  flute-like  voice  was  heard 
to  laugh  shrilly:  In  the  morning  the  cows  were 
dry  and  the  ewes  had  lost  their  lambs. 

At  some  other  new  moon  night  she  was  again 
seen  standing  naked  in  the  fields,  and  when  the 


218  YANCU  LAUTARU 

peasants  had  gathered  at  a  distance,  with  bells 
and  dishpans  and  had  crossed  themselves  and  in- 
voked the  name  of  the  Eternal  to  drive  away  the 
dark  one,  they  were  pelted  with  stones  which  the 
river  spat  at  them  and  they  had  to  run  to  their 
huts.  The  whole  night  long  the  stones  kept  up 
their  drumming  against  the  walls  of  the  houses 
and  barns. 

The  missiles  broke  the  windows,  entered  the 
chimneys  and  put  out  the  fires;  and  the  wicks  of 
the  candles  were  snuffed  out  by  an  unseen  hand. 
Until  the  cock  crew  the  shrill  laughter  of  Beelze- 
bub was  heard.  In  the  morning  all  the  cows 
were  diy,  the  oxen  wild,  the  horses  lame,  the 
fowls  dead.  The  mothers'  breasts  were  empty, 
the  children  withered.  And  no  sooner  had  the 
sun  risen  than  clouds  of  locusts  came  between 
its  light  and  the  earth  and  not  one  kernel  of  wheat 
was  left  when  the  sun  had  set.  Nicolai  Marin- 
escu  had  heard  the  story  of  the  great  calamity 
many  a  time  in  his  youth.  Not  until  that  other 
Stefan  had  left  his  home  and  gone  with  the 
woman  (said  the  tale)  was  the  land  free  from 
the  evils  of  witchcraft.  And  not  until  the  old 
gypsy  was  burned  alive  in  her  hut  where  she 
practiced  sorcery  had  any  of  the  peasants  dared 
to  plow  or  sow  their  land. 

All  these  legends  had  come  back  to  the  old 
Boyar's  mind  since  he  had  observed  his  son's  at- 
tachment to  the  old  gypsy.  No  power  but  witch- 


YANCU  LAUTARU  219 

craft  caused  this.  It  was  high  time  to  curb  the 
evil.  So  Yancu  Lautaru  did  not  know  why  he 
found  himself  packed  off  to  the  railroad  station 
early  one  morning,  before  the  young  Boyar  had 
risen  from  his  bed.  The  old  Boyar  was  leaning 
on  his  cane  and  his  hands  trembled  as  he  handed 
the  gypsy  a  heavy  purse  full  with  gold  and 
begged  him,  with  eyes  full  of  tears,  to  return  him 
his  son  .  .  .  the  son  who  was  already  in  the 
clutches  of  dark  powers  .  .  .  whose  violin  spoke 
the  language  of  fire  and  water  .  .  .  that  was  it 
.  .  .  fire  and  water.  No  human  being  had  made 
the  violin  speak  such  language.  And  Yancu 
Lautaru  returned  to  his  home  white-haired  and 
broken-hearted,  and  no  coaxing  and  no  amount 
of  money,  however  large,  could  induce  him  to 
play  at  the  weddings  of  that  winter. 

"But  where  is  Yancu?"  the  young  Boyar 
asked,  as  soon  as  he  had  dressed,  the  morning 
the  gypsy  had  been  sent  away. 

No  one  knew  how  to  answer  him.  His  mother 
sent  him  to  his  father  with  the  query. 

"Don't  ask,  son,"  the  old  man  answered,  shak- 
ing with  emotion.  "It  has  been  my  will  that  he 
return  whence  he  came,  and  my  will  is  that  you 
shall  never  see  him  again." 

Stefan  knew  his  father  too  well  to  question 
further,  but  the  walls  of  the  palace  looked  like 
prison  walls  to  him  when  he  saw  them  again. 
They  were  closing  in  all  about  him.  It  seemed  to 


220  YANCU  LAUTARU 

him  that  everything  had  died  overnight.  That 
death  had  entered  his  own  being.  He  went  to  see 
his  mother.  She  was  pale  and  her  eyes  were  ex- 
tinguished. He  tried  to  play  the  violin;  the  in- 
strument responded  as  if  it  were  a  piece  of  lead. 
The  sound  withered  on  the  strings  and  died  on 
the  bow.  And  all  the  voices  of  the  people  around 
him  were  like  echoes  of  croaking  crows. 

That  night,  at  the  salon  of  the  Countess 
Bernes,  Stefan  was  asked  to  play.  His  mother 
had  brought  his  violin  in  the  carriage  and  it  was 
put  into  the  young  Boyar's  hands  by  the  countess 
herself. 

"But  I  can't  play,  Madame,"  the  young  Boyar 
explained  as  he  showed  her  the  violin,  ''don't  you 
see?  My  violin  is  dead!  It  died  this  morning. 
It's  dead,  don't  you  see?" 

"A  savage  whim  of  a  barbarian,"  thought  the 
countess. 

Stefan  could  find  no  rest.  At  times  he  felt 
too  hot  and  at  others  his  feet  were  frozen.  The 
father  watched  his  son's  behavior.  "Yancu  was 
good  and  true.  Already  Beelzebub  was  freeing 
his  possession.  Stefan  has  refused  to  play  .  .  ." 
the  old  superstitious  Boyar  muttered  to  him- 
self. 

When  the  Marinescus  returned  to  their  home 
Stefan  was  feverish  and  had  to  be  put  to  bed. 
The  house  physician  was  called  and  remained 
near  the  sick  young  man  the  whole  night. 


YANCU  LAUTARU  221 

"My  violin  died,"  the  fevered  young  man  re- 
peated incessantly,  "my  violin  died.  Yancu 
Lautaru  took  its  soul  with  him.  Yancu  .  .  . 
Yancu.  .  .  ." 

"Typhus,"  the  medicus  diagnosed  to  the  cry- 
ing mother  early  on  the  morning  of  the  third  day. 

He  could  not  understand  why  the  old  Boyar 
seemed  rather  pleased  with  his  son's  illness.  The 
refined  old  Frenchman  could  not  fathom  the  soul 
of  the  old  savage  who  rubbed  his  hands  in  glee 
while  his  son  tossed  on  the  bed  hovering  between 
life  and  death. 

"Typhus,  you  say,  doctor?  You  don't  know 
.  .  .  science  does  not  know,  doctor.  I  can  tell 
you  what  it  is.  I  know.  My  son  is  battling  with 
Beelzebub.  He  has  been  bewitched  by  an  old 
gypsy.  And  he  is  being  freed  from  the  dark 
power.  See,  see,  how  he  is  fighting,"  and  the  old 
Boyar  called  to  his  son  to  throw  out  the  devil,  to 
strangle  him,  to  choke  him;  himself  continually 
calling  on  God  to  aid  Stefan. 

Six  long  weeks  Stefan  had  lain  abed ;  at  times, 
at  the  beginning,  completely  unconscious,  and 
later  with  a  beclouded  memory  of  things  and 
people.  But  at  the  first  sight  of  his  father  all 
came  back  and  he  averted  his  eyes.  He  seemed  to 
see  the  scene  in  which  the  old  white-haired  gypsy 
was  ordered  to  leave  immediately,  and  he  hated 
his  father. 

"But,  God!    It's  my  own  son,  my  own  flesh 


222  YANCU  LAUTARU 

and  blood!  Why  does  he  close  his  eyes  when  I 
enter  the  room?"  the  old  man  complained  to  the 
crying  mother.  "Ask  him,  ask  him,"  the  mother 
answered  with  tears.  Her  son's  illness  had  worn 
her  to  a  shadow. 

The  physician  felt  that  something  had  hap- 
pened between  father  and  son  before  the  young 
man  had  been  taken  ill.  He  advised  the  old 
Boyar  to  avoid  going  into  the  sick  room  until 
Stefan  had  completely  recovered. 

When  spring  had  returned  the  father  had  to 
make  the  journey  back  to  his  homeland,  and 
mother  and  son  were  left  alone. 

When  Stefan's  health  was  restored  sufficiently 
he  and  his  mother  were  seen  in  Nice,  along  the 
Riviera,  and  after  that  in  Venice  and  Florence 
and  Rome.  Just  when  they  were  intending 
to  go  to  Cairo  for  the  fall  season  news  reached 
them  of  the  sudden  death  of  the  old  Boyar.  The 
death  of  Nicolai  Marinescu  made  the  young 
Stefan  head  of  the  old  castle  and  chief  of  the 
family. 

He  returned  and  took  possession.  Soon  after 
that  the  snow  ushered  in  an  early  winter. 
Stefan's  mother  urged  him  to  return  to  Paris 
but  the  young  Boyar  would  not  hear  of  it.  His 
mother  could  go  if  she  wanted.  He  would  re- 
main at  home.  There  were  different  things  he 
wanted  to  supervise.  Hardly  had  his  mother  left 
the  castle  and  Stefan  ordered  the  best  horses 


YANCU  LAUTARU  223 

harnessed  to  the  lightest  carriage.  He  himself 
took  the  reins  in  hand.  He  wanted  no  one  with 
him. 

"Where  does  the  Boyar  drive  at  such  speed?" 
the  peasants  asked  one  another.  The  old  house- 
servants,  wise  with  long  service,  shook  their  heads 
knowingly  and  answered,  "Nobody  ever  knows 
what  a  Marinescu  Boyar  will  do  next.  He  may 
be  off  to  some  woman.  And  again,  he  may  just 
want  to  drive  the  two  horses  to  death.  Who 
knows?" 

Stefan  took  the  road  to  Galatz,  to  the  home 
of  Yancu  Lautaru.  The  impulse  was  irresistible. 

He  had  traveled  the  same  road  once  in  his 
youth,  when  Yancu  had  been  reported  very  ill. 
His  mother  had  given  him  permission  to  go  and 
had  made  him  promise  not  to  tell  his  father, 
who  was  then  absent.  All  the  intervening  years 
had  left  the  memory  of  that  ride  clear  and  con- 
cise in  the  youth's  mind.  And  as  he  drove  against 
the  cold  wind  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  heard 
again  the  voice  of  a  little  girl,  a  round-eyed, 
curly-headed  little  girl,  a  year  or  two  younger 
than  himself,  who  stood  at  the  bedside  of  the  old 
gypsy.  And  it  became  clear  to  him  now  that  it 
was  that  marvelous  voice  that  had  been  the  diapa- 
son, the  tuning-fork,  by  which  he  had  tried  all 
the  voices  he  had  ever  heard. 

He  had  forgotten  all  about  the  girl.  An  ill- 
ness had  wiped  her  from  his  memory.  But  now, 


224  YANCU  LAUTARU 

against  the  wind,  on  the  wings  of  the  wind  com- 
ing from  the  direction  of  his  goal,  he  seemed  to 
hear  it  all  over  again. 

She  was  Yancu's  niece.  And  what  if  she  was 
a  gypsy?  She  had  the  true  voice.  The  voice  that 
had  haunted  him  since  early  youth.  He  would 
choose  whom  he  wanted.  For  centuries  and  cen- 
turies the  Marinescus  had  been  slaves  to  the  past. 
Not  one  had  been  allowed  to  follow  the  bent  of 
his  own  heart.  The  poor,  the  peasants,  the  vil- 
lagers were  happier  than  the  Marinescus  of  the 
great  castles  and  the  great  fertile  fields  and  heavy 
wooded  forests.  They,  the  peasants,  could 
choose  freely.  Not  so  the  Marinescus.  It  was 
good  that  fate  had  given  him  the  power  to  dictate 
now.  His  orders  were  that  every  one  of  the 
Marinescus  should  follow  his  own  heart  in  mat- 
ters of  love.  He  himself  ...  if  that  curly- 
headed  girl  of  the  marvelous  voice  were  still  alive, 
he  himself  would  set  an  example.  He  would 
bring  her  to  the  castle.  Make  her  the  mistress 
of  the  castle — what  did  he  care  for  traditions ! 

He  would  take  Yancu  Lautaru  to  the  castle. 
He  wanted  to  hear  him  play — hear  him  every 
day.  If  a  tzigane  was  as  good  a  player,  if  he  had 
such  a  heart  as  Yancu,  who  gave  away  more  than 
he  earned,  what  mattered  it  that  he  was  a  tzi- 
gane? 

The  horses  had  been  running  at  full  speed  for 
two  hours  and  had  covered  only  half  the  distance. 


YANCU  LAUTARU  225 

A  heavy  snow  was  falling,  making  traveling  dif- 
ficult. Stefan  gave  the  horses  a  short  rest  by 
walking  them  slowly.  But  when  their  flanks  no 
longer  heaved  like  bellows  the  young  Boyar 
cracked  the  long  whip  over  their  heads  and  urged 
them  on.  He  must  see  Yancu  Lautaru.  He  was 
his  only  friend.  He  had  to  hear  that  girl's  voice 
again. 

"Go  on,  go  on,  my  good  ones!  A  Marinescu 
is  driving  you,"  Stefan  spoke  to  the  horses. 
"The  wind  is  against  you  but  the  wind  is  good. 
My  children  and  children's  children  will  bless  the 
wind." 

The  horses  understood.  The  young  Boyar 
had  always  been  good  and  kind  to  them.  If  he 
asked  an  effort  now  it  was  because  he  knew. 
They  got  their  second  wind.  The  good  beasts 
stretched  their  necks  and  lengthened  their  stride. 

It  was  getting  dark.  They  were  approaching 
the  Bratesh  lake,  behind  the  Vadu  Ungurului, 
the  woods  of  which  were  thick  with  wolves  as 
soon  as  the  first  snow  of  the  year  fell.  One  of 
the  horses  rose  suddenly  on  its  hind  legs  and 
tossed  its  head  to  shake  off  the  bit.  The  whip  of 
the  master  brought  it  down.  A  little  while  later 
the  other  horse  stopped  abruptly  and  sniffed  the 
air.  It  resumed  its  course  only  after  Stefan 
had  fired  several  shots  in  the  air.  The  young 
Boyar  did  not  see  the  lurking  beasts.  Yet  he 
was  sure  they  were  there,  all  about  him,  behind 


226  YANCU  LAUTARU 

the  trees,  right  and  left  on  the  road.  By  the 
action  of  the  horses  he  knew  the  nearness  of  the 
man-eating  wolves.  There  was  a  dim  light  at  a 
short  distance.  Probably  the  hut  of  a  peasant. 
He  could  drive  to  it  and  stay  there  overnight. 
But  a  mad  desire  to  see  Yancu  Lautaru  and  hear 
that  girl's  voice  urged  him  past  the  hut  though 
the  road  led  again  through  the  woods.  The 
horses  reared  again  and  again  and  the  cracks  of 
the  whip  alternated  with  the  loud  reports  from  the 
pistol  which  Stefan  discharged  in  the  trees  as 
he  sped  by.  When  night  had  finally  fallen,  two 
foaming  horses  coursed  madly  through  the  city, 
dragging  after  them  a  badly  broken  carriage 
in  which  sat  a  white-faced  youth  with  feverish 
eyes. 

"Show  me  the  way  to  Yancu  Lautaru,"  the 
young  Boyar  asked  of  a  passer-by. 

"The  house  at  the  end  of  the  street,  young 
man,  and  if  you  want  to  speak  to  him,  you'd  bet- 
ter hurry." 

"Here  you!  Take  care  of  the  horses  while  I 
run  to  see  him,"  said  Stefan  as  he  put  the  reins 
in  the  man's  hands  and  jumped  down  from  the 
carriage. 

"But  who  are  you?"  demanded  the  man  as  he 
looked  into  Stefan's  face  in  the  light  of  the  dim 
street-lantern.  "You  look  like  the  ghost  of 
Yancu  Lautaru — Yancu  Lautaru  at  twenty!  as 
if  it  were  yesterday.  Yancu  Lautaru  in  the  flesh 


YANCU  LAUTARU  227 

at  twenty.  ..."  And  as  he  said  so  the  man 
dropped  the  reins,  crossed  himself  and  ran  in  the 
opposite  direction,  invoking  aloud  heaven  and 
the  holy  virgin  to  protect  him  from  the  powers 
of  darkness  in  that  bewitched  night. 

"So,  you  have  come,  my  young  Boyar,"  said 
the  old  gypsy  from  his  bed,  when  he  heard 
Stefan's  voice.  "I  knew  you  would — I  knew 
you  would — bogdaproste.  .  .  ." 

"He  was  calling  you  all  the  time,"  said  a  curly- 
headed  gypsy  girl  who  cried  as  she  prepared  the 
wax  candles  for  the  dead. 

It  was  the  voice — the  true  diapason,  the  tun- 
ing-fork. 

"Give  me  your  hand.  I  want  to  touch  your 
face  .  .  .  my  son  .  .  .  my  .  .  .  my  .  .  .  only 
son.  I  knew  you  were  my  son  ...  at  the  first 
stroke  of  the  bow  .  .  .  my  son  .  .  .  my  son 
.  .  .  who  .  .  .  plays  better  .  .  .  than  any  man. 
.  .  ."  And  Yancu  Lautaru  died  peacefully. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  because  the  two 
horses  were  eaten  by  wolves  as  they  ran  home- 
wards through  the  forest,  the  Marinescus 
mourned  the  lost  head  of  the  family,  while 
Stefan  Lautaru  took  the  fiddle  of  his  father 
and  departed  to  other  lands  where  he  gathered 
fame  and  gold  which  he  shared  with  his  curly- 
headed,  clear-voiced  gypsy  wife. 


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